Peace is Overrated
by JohnQKole
Summary: Two years after the finale, Fleabag and The Priest meet again.
1. Chapter 1

_**A/N-I apologize for not updating my other story…an unexpected promotion and the welcoming of a new baby in the family just before Christmas derailed my writing a little. I started Fleabag, which kept me company on long nights I had to stay awake, and I'm so obsessed with creating a short follow-up. This show is just phenomenal, but for my selfish personal taste, unfinished. **_

_**This will be 3-5 parts max, then I'll get back to the other story. I'm really not sure if anyone is even remotely interested in this, but I kind of need to get it out of my head and on to the page so I can close. Hope someone out there enjoys it. Again, apologies to those waiting for updates.**_

_**This will be a little sweet and pretty smutty, and hopefully kind of fun. I really hope.**_

_**(Sorry for any Americanized terms that slip through…I tried to catch them, but I'm sure I'll flub up.) Thanks to all of you who give the story a chance.**_

* * *

**A Holy Heart Attack**

When the call came from Claire (who knew of all this before I did in spite of being in Finland rather than a short bus ride away), I answered even though every seat in the café was occupied. She sounded upset as she told me to get to the hospital immediately. Something about Dad's heart.

I asked Gorgeous Assistant, whom I'd hired to help me on these busier days (_and he helps with other things. Mostly orgasms) _if he could finish out this shift alone.

So I'm here now by Dad's bedside, hoping the next few days won't include another fucking funeral. He's attached to various machines and tubes, white tape holding things in place. "Not a great sign if they had to tape him back together, is it?" I joke to fill the silence.

Stodgy Nurse scowls. Behind me, Godmother storms into the room, dramatic as ever, and she hugs me as she tearlessly over-sobs on my shoulder.

"A heart attack," she cries, "in the midst of a passionate encounter."

_Oh god. _I await the details that I suspect will come whether I want them to or not.

She continues, "They said the procedure went well, but I can't help but feel a little responsible as it was a particularly vigorous day."

"There, there," I say, patting her shoulder as I try to disappear from this moment for a little while.

She stands between me and Dad, going on and on about this story. _I'm finding it particularly difficult not to tell her to shut up and fuck off. _I manage to refrain from doing that.

A doctor comes in to discuss the situation, and Godmother hurries to the hall with him like the details of his current condition are things I shouldn't be privy to.

I sit on a chair next to his bed, head bowed, trying to find a place on his arm that isn't taped or tubed to rest my hand. "Finally got the shits of her, did ya, Dad?" I hope he'll cringe or fluster.

Of course I get nothing back, no sign of awareness, the only indication of life coming from the screens that display his heartbeat.

The memories rush in of Mum and Boo, and their lives and deaths, and the remnants of pain that just never really fucking heal even when I ignore them.

I hold on to the few minutes I can have with him before Godmother returns. A hand touches my shoulder, hovering more than truly settling into the touch. I somehow know who it is before I hear that smoothly smoky voice question, "Are you alright?"

Taking a quick swipe at my tears (like maybe he won't notice I'm crying by a hospital bed), I look up at him from my seat..._ damn, I remember gazing up at that face teary-eyed before _...and my first reaction is to don the smile I need for my own protection.

The Priest returns the smile at first, warmly, kindly, like he would have _before_. The smile is replaced with empathetic sadness. He says, "Is there anything I can—"

"No, nothing, F—" I can't seem to finish the title I'd once addressed him by, the one that used to feel so charged and strangely personal in spite of the fact that nearly everyone used it.

I stand, bending awkwardly around the far side of the chair so I can create distance, having something between us. "Why are you here?" I ask, that smile faltering on the edges as the ache caused both by the man lying near and the man standing before me threaten my ability to remain quietly collected.

He explains, "Your stepmother called. Since I performed their wedding, she asked and I felt it appropriate to provide some support in these hours of—"

"How good of you," I reply, reapplying the smiling shield. "Well then, I'll come back later so you can support those who wish to receive it without any interference from me."

"You don't have to go," he answers instantly. He holds the stare long and hard, and adds with words so certain it feels like I can't dodge them, "I don't want you to go."

Those words call up uninvited memories, and those memories carry even more uninvited feelings. Snapshots of drinks together, shared laughs, passionate kisses, and one unforgettable night rapid fire through my mind's eye.

"I can listen," he offers sincerely, looking far too priestly for my liking right now. Funny, part of what sparked my initial attraction now seems to ruin it. He continues, "I'd like to—"

"Father!" Godmother calls as she rushes in, her arms around him, the entire story of Dad's episode being retold again with details I'm sure he wants to hear even less than I do. I half expect her to whip out a canvas and paint the scene for everyone to marvel at.

I give Dad's shoulder a gentle squeeze and sneak out of the room while The Priest is somewhat unwillingly stuck in Godmother's embrace.

* * *

A little later I'm back at the café, closing up, finding my mind replaying my interactions with The Priest both today and in previous days over and over. I'm so distracted by these thoughts I can't concentrate.

I glance out the window through the sheer curtains, my eyes sweeping across it, then, like doing a double take, coming right back to the man standing on the other side. My mouth opens slightly for a second. I'm completely stunned.

_He's here. The man I can't stop thinking of has materialized outside my door. _

He isn't dressed in his clerical clothes, peering through the door looking a little like a lost puppy. He reaches over, trying the door, finding it locked, and looking quite rejected at the realization. Gorgeous Assistant goes to the door as he's near it anyway, slips open the lock and gruffly asks, "We're closed. Whatchoo want?"

"Hello," The Priest answers politely.

"Oh, hello. Whatchoo want?" Gorgeous Assistant repeats like he doesn't have time to share greetings before getting to the point.

"I'd like…" his eyes look around my assistant and find me. "I'd like to talk to her...if that's okay."

"Well—"

"For fuck's sake, let him in," I call out.

Gorgeous Assistant, overtly unwelcoming, acts as if he's been required to do some impossible task, then opens the door. He asks me, "You want me to hang around and—"

"It's okay. Go home," I reply.

"Come over later or—?"

"I'll see you tomorrow."

My assistant gives one final stare before he leaves.

"He's a friendly one," The Priest jokes.

I lean down into the cold case and finish cleaning the glass. _There's only one reason why he'd come here. _

"Is he dead?" I ask.

"Pardon?"

"Did they send you to tell me Dad died?"

"No, no, no. Nothing like that. When I left the hospital, the situation was unchanged. I—I sent myself here. Can I help—"

"No. You can't, remember? Have to keep my distance. Not sure how to make that work. Unless...maybe I'll stay here, and you can go back to the safety of your church and text me all the help I need. Not the same sense of formality of a confessional, but probably much better at maintaining the required space. Long distance therapriestizing!" I grin for a moment at my cleverness.

_Fucking confessional. _

He begins, "I'm here now. Can I help—?"

I interrupt, "Well, still an atheist. So I don't think the kind of help you're willing to offer is the kind of help I want to receive."

"I meant...can I help you close up the café?"

I stand, looking at him in a challenging sort of way, and tease, "You want to sweep the floors?"

"Yes," he answers without the slightest hesitation, walking in search of the broom after I point in the approximate direction.

The next twenty minutes pass quietly as I finish with the till and put containers in their places for the night. It's odd, silence between us, when at one time we were both so busy asking questions that we spoke over each other.

He wraps his hands around the stick of the broom, leaning on it a bit, and he inquires, "The young man at the door here earlier...he's your…?"

"I hired him to help around here. He's a hard worker, quite reliable, like clockwork."

"Is he a...romantic partner?" he continues, with a quick smile that covers absolutely nothing.

"Well, fucking doesn't have to be romantic, does it?" I reply without anger, but with a heavy heart that shows in my voice.

"Right. I won't ask," he surrenders.

I come around to the front when he stashes the broom, standing tall and certain in front of him, and I hold up a few notes to pay him.

"What's this for?" he scoffs.

"Payment for your services. Thanks for the help. I've got to run, so..."

"No," he declines, pushing my hand gently back with his palm.

"What are you doing here?" I ask, my words more full of curiosity than accusation.

"Wanted to see if you're okay."

"Well, yes. I'm fine. Got to go and—"

"And… to ask you…"

"To ask me what?"

"Your stepmother wanted to know if...I'd be available to assist your family in this difficult time."

"He's not dead yet!" I snap abruptly, the worry I feel for Dad coming to the surface after I've mostly kept it hidden so far.

"I know. I don't want my presence to make any of this more difficult for you. But if I can offer any words of—"

"Please don't offer any words. Feel free to offer my stepmother the guidance and comfort she seeks. It would mean a lot to her." I pause, adding a perfunctory smile as I try to cover that ache and make it appear that everything is fine. _It's not. _"Little has changed. I still think we're all worm food when it's all said and done, so promises of angels and afterlives don't affect me either way," I add.

"Are you angry with me?" he asks softly.

"Angry?"

"Yes."

"I'm not angry, I'm confused. You asked me to stay away. I stayed away. And here you are. And I don't feel like getting sucked back in _by you _only to have you tell me again that you've chosen a life devoted to a god who says you should love all people in a special way _except _me. Or maybe you're only allowed to love him. I can't keep all the rules straight."

The silence echoes around us after the bluntness of my answer.

He whispers, "I never stopped—"

"Being a priest?" I interrupt. "Oh, I noticed that straightaway when you showed at the hospital and—"

"The love I feel for God and humanity is a very different sort than the type we shared. You know—"

My phone rings and I pick it up, half disappointed that we're interrupted and half relieved. I answer, "Claire? You landed?" And after a brief conversation I tell her, "I'll see you there."

He's studying me, trying to figure out what I'd learned, and he asks, "So…any news?"

"Dad's awake. My stepmother suggests we come to see him while…" I pause. _I'm really not ready for another funeral. _

"Can I come with you?"

_Does he have any fucking idea how difficult he is to say no to? _

A question strikes my brain, so I ask, "Did my stepmother ask you to preside over the funeral?"

He takes a steadying breath, an awkward cornered look on his face. "She mentioned the possibility...should the need arise."

"How would that work, exactly? Could I come in to your church for just that one day, or must I observe from outside...maybe have someone prop open a door, and I could grab some binoculars and mourn from across the street?"

It was meant as a joke (and maybe a little jab) but my stoic shell cracks and I feel sorrow and worry overwhelm other forces. My head bows slightly as my fingers shield my forehead.

He reaches for my elbows, one in each of his hands, and we stand in something that is nearly an embrace. _I should push him away, but I won't. _

Our faces are nearly touching, and he reaches up with both hands and gently brushes my cheeks with this thumbs. I feel our breath match, inhale to inhale, exhale to exhale. Now that he's close, I sense the size of the void left by his absence, and my chest feels like it could cave in from the vastness of that empty space.

He sighs, "Oh, Love—"

At that I pull away abruptly. He'd never used such a fond term to address me before, and years of separation hasn't really allowed me to build any resistance to him at all. "Really got to go," I insist.

"Can I come? Let me come? I'll get us a ride." Before I can say 'no', he pleads, "Please."

_I can see it in his eyes, he's prepared for a sex joke, something about cumming._ _I think he's actually hoping I'll make one._

"Alright," I agree. "I'm sure my stepmother will be calling for you anyway."

* * *

_What in the hell is he doing here? D'you think he's bored? _

It's nice having him near, riding beside me in the back of the car. He sits close, and I feel his shoulder brush mine.

"What have you been up to?" he asks, turning his head slightly toward me.

"Nothing much."

My mind flashes back through changes at the café, through my ill-advised engagement that lasted just 13 days, to my eventual decision that love wasn't for me and settling into the easy cadence of a physical, no-strings relationship with a younger man I eventually employed. It's refreshingly simple, and I'm absolutely positive I will not get hurt. _Not that my inability to find love has anything to do with the forbidden man currently rubbing shoulders with me. _

The hospital visit is relatively short. The Priest says kind words to Dad, to Claire, to Godmother. When we actually get to speak to the doctor, the situation sounds much less dire than Godmother had led us to believe, but she's still truly enjoying the intensity of it all.

Of course she asks why he's not wearing his little collar. _I'm wondering that myself...not that wearing such things ever stopped us from getting into trouble._

Godmother invites us all to a family brunch at the hospital in the morning to spend time together. It sounds like an absolutely horrid idea. _At least since Martin's gone, it's unlikely I'll assault anyone. _

I leave the room after the visit, stepping into the lift and finding The Priest hurrying along to join me. "Your father seems to be doing alright, all things considered."

"Yea. He does," I say with a relieved sigh.

"Where off to next?" The Priest asks with that flashing grin that used to (still does) make me instantly wet. "Getting the bus or—"

"You know, I find I have an almost overwhelming fear of rejection while waiting at bus stops these days. Strange isn't it?"

He chuckles, shaking his head, reaching hesitantly to tap my wrist, "Listen—"

The door opens and we both step away a little as we're joined by a few others. It reminds me of how forbidden this all still is, and how quickly what we might have can be lost.

But he leans back in, coming closer, and continues even though there are others present, "Join me for a drink? Just...to talk. Come on."

I barely shake my head, but it's far too equivocal to be taken as a strict 'no.'

"I miss you. Constantly," he adds. A woman at the front of the lift turns, taking one long, approving look at him, then glancing at me, and then nodding to me that I should certainly agree to his offer.

"Thank you," he tells the woman who'd encouraged it, easily charming her as he does nearly anyone. Turning back to me, he adds, "G&T?" His eyes are wide and full of hope, and I see beneath it that he fears rejection might boomerang back and hit him right now.

But twenty minutes later, we're sitting at a park on opposite sides of a wooden table, sharing a bottle of whiskey poured into plastic cups, a small bag of ice on the table slowly melting. For some reason, I'm not ready to share G&T just yet.

His index finger taps and rolls a piece of ice that fell from the bag and is gradually creating a small puddle of water on the table top. _So insanely arousing, _and he says, "Tell me something."

"What do you want me to tell you?" I ask with a quick chuckle, the drink dancing in my head a little.

"Anything."

"Heard any interesting revelations at those Quaker meetings lately?" I choose, noting his disapproval that what I opted to share was a question instead of a statement.

"You really raised the bar for what qualifies as an 'interesting revelation,'" he volleys back.

"Are you going to tell me what you're really doing here?" I ask.

"Well, your stepmother called and—"

"No. I didn't ask why you were _there_. I asked why you're _here_, having a drink with me after all this time. Finally decided to castrate yourself so now it's safe to see me?" I joke.

"Best decision I've ever made. Just wanted to pop by and see if the temptation was really gone."

I gasp before even considering the likelihood. Even the possibility is beyond disturbing. It's a horrified gasp, hand covering my mouth as I imagine a fine and lovely part of him being rendered useless. Woefully, _his beautiful cock! _

He laughs as his hand rests on mine, the one ice-chilled fingertip shocks me a little. "Now that was a look of horror if I've ever seen one," he points out.

I'm sure my bemusement is clear on my face.

He covers his heart with his hand and says, "Probably shouldn't tell you this, but I feel a sense of relief that you're upset at that thought."

"Well, I don't want to add 'drove a man to self-inflicted castration' to my list of life accomplishments."

"What would be the point? I doubt even so drastic a measure would eradicate the worst of the temptation," he says, always a master of floating out an idea and letting it settle on a person.

"What?"

"The temptation wasn't solely a physical one. The physical temptations aren't the most dangerous ones." Then, struck with remorse, he redirects, "But we should be talking about your father. Your dad. Sorry. Please. So how are things with him and—"

"I don't want to talk about that."

"How's the café?" he asks.

"Extremely successful. I've had to hire two people on to help, and I'm considering a third."

"The guinea pig?"

"She passed, sadly. Got a few more so I could avoid losing all my friends at once. Oddly enough, a hamster with an identity crisis is living to a ripe old age."

"Any...developments in your romantic life?"

_He still asks a fucking lot of questions. _

"I was engaged," I say, watching his reaction. _Oh thank god, he looks devastated. _"For less than two weeks." _Now he looks relieved. God, this really shouldn't make me so happy. _

"That's too bad," he appropriately responds. "Why so short?"

"Felt hypocritical to pretend to love a man when I was in love with someone else."

His eyes study me in that permeating way. "Sums up my recent experience as well," he finally replies, gazing upward for a moment. Before I can ask for further clarification, he asks, "Still live at the same place?"

"No." Not sure what's coming next, I add, "I should get home."

"I'll walk with you."

_This man is particularly insistent. _

"Why do you still do that?" he asks, sounding frustrated.

"Do what? Think?" I ask, as I dispose of the empty cups.

"It's more than that."

"What's really going on with you?" I ask him as we walk, tired of asking something that never seems to be adequately answered. "If you feel some obligation—"

"I'm not here out of obligation."

"Or guilt—"

"Nor guilt," he insists.

"Then why? 'Cause I'll be honest. I've found some peace, or my version of it."

"What version is that?"

"You told me once that celibacy was less complicated than romantic relationships."

"True."

"It is, in a way. This is my version of it...celibacy of the heart. No complications, no expectations, no frustration either."

He asks without judgment, guessing, "Is it peaceful? Sounds, in a very real way, quite lonely."

"Maybe love isn't meant for everyone," I answer.

"Don't say _that_," he says like his chest has been hit by a powerful blow. He's far more upset about that than the fact that I'm an atheist.

"Why?"

"Don't dismiss all of the wonderful things that might happen if you're open to them."

"What are you doing?" I ask, demanding. Any attempt at jocularity is absent. _Is he just toying with me? _

He follows me into my disconnect, and that is still creepy as hell. "You don't have to hide from me," he insists. "Like you, like your engagement, I realized recently that I'm not being truthful. To myself. To Him. To deny certain truths...makes everything else a lie. These last months—"

"—years—" I correct.

"—yes. Years. The last _years _these feelings for you haven't eased. Even without seeing you. It's still here," he places a balled up fist over his heart.

"What if it's not there for me anymore?"

"Is that true?"

_No. _"I don't know. I prefer not to think about it."

"Maybe it's time to."

"But you're still a priest!" I yell, a dog barking in response to the disturbance. He looks over his shoulder, and I wonder if he's still running from foxes.

"I know. No matter what your response, I've been lying to myself and to nearly everyone else. I need to make all that right somehow. Listen, I know I've hurt you, I've made mistakes. But something happened that seems like a sign."

"Go on."

"I've been thinking of you more frequently these last several weeks, not refusing the memories. I was trying to...think of ways to reach out, what to say. I've prayed on it, on finding that right place and time."

"Praying to the same god you chose when—"

"Same God," he interrupts. "I prayed on it, pleaded the last few nights. Then today...your stepmother called."

"So this god of yours gave my Dad a holy heart attack so you could catch up with me?" I chuckle.

"No," he shakes his head, that fond look on his face. "But, when that happened, maybe he encouraged your stepmother to reach out to me."

"Seems like a pretty sharp turnaround from the supreme being who didn't want us together," I half joke.

"I've fucking agonized on this," he says severely. "I've struggled and wrestled with all this conflict inside me and tried to figure it all out. I've tried to do the right thing. But I think maybe what I thought was the right thing is not the right thing. I also think I've discovered...maybe 'peace' is slightly overrated."

We walk toward a bus stop, and part of me imagines us sitting down on the bench there as I watch this fall apart (again).

He continues, "I don't need an answer now. But I'd like the chance to see...if what was...is still there. For both of us. I think...it is."

"So you want to be my new casual sex partner?" I chuckle.

"God, no. I couldn't do that." He's not joking.

"Maybe just once or twice while we figure this all out?"

"Okay," he teases like I'm dragging him unwillingly into playfulness, "maybe once or twice."

I try to right my spinning head, and as we wait (standing) at the bus stop, I see that mischievous grin, and quickly ask, "What?"

"Eh. Just doing some planning."

"What sort of planning?"

"Thinking of ways I might be able to help you overcome your fear of bus stops."

The flirty looks traded are heavy with more than suggestion. For once, the bus arrives without the need for a wait.

When we arrive at my doorstep, I know I have to make a decision on the matter I've been pondering. _Do I invite him in or no? _

I unlock the key and turn to see that look of optimism staring at me, and nearly invite him in instantly. "I won't even ask to come in," he says, subtly shaking his head.

"Really? Why's that?"

"Well, on one hand, I want to give you time to consider all this. And on the other hand, I'm not sure you'd agree to let me in at all. I'd rather walk away tonight with this hopeful feeling intact."

"Probably a good idea." _It's a lie, a total fucking lie. If he asked to come in right now, I couldn't say no, and we'd spend the rest of the night fucking each other like we've never fucked before. _

"I understand," he returns.

My expression is probably enough to let him know exactly how I feel.

I say, a bit more seriously. "You think you feel this way now, but you'll put on some of your pretty outfits and stand before an adoring crowd, and you'll realize _that's _the life you want, and if you abandon it, your whole life will be fucked."

"I had that all wrong. The choice I made that night..._ still _fucked my life, and probably far worse than the alternative."

"Well, let's see what you say tomorrow. And the day after that."

"I already know what I'll say. But I'm more than happy to prove it to you. That's all I ask...for the chance to prove it to you."

I'm on the only step to enter my flat, and he steps up onto it with me. I feel my back against the painted door behind me, his body firm and unyielding at my front. I hear the steadying breath he takes as his hands settle on my hips. He gives me a moment to escape him, but I feel a rushing blush rise across my face. His piercing stare and unwavering certainty make any desire to deny him vanish.

The moment my eyes drop to his lips, his mouth is on mine.

The kiss is instantly hot. Hungry. Seething.

That hasn't changed. For a person who voluntarily opted to forego passion, he remains the most passionate man I've known. I can't think of anything in the world as positively electric as the feeling of him touching me.

A car alarm blares behind us, and I wait for this to be the event that he takes as a sign of heavenly disapproval. But the alarm sounds a few seconds before he leaves a small gap between our lips. He stays close, still holding onto one of my hips, a few fingers at the back of my neck. He doesn't look conflicted as he tries to catch his breath, his skin a little flushed, his gaze affectionate.

And damn this man _wants _me.

"Can I come by tomorrow? Accompany you to that odd excuse for a brunch?" he asks a bit breathlessly.

"Gonna break it off before or after my family get together? I'd like to know so I can be prepared."

"Like I said...I'll prove myself. I'll come get you in the morning unless you tell me not to."

He backs away, not turning away filled with doubt, regret, accusation, or guilt, but smiling as he steps backward down the street.

"Wait!" I shout, hurrying partway after him.

_That smirk does things to me. _

"You're gonna crash into the bike," I explain.

He looks over his shoulder, seeing a parked bicycle blocking his route. "Oh," he replies, simultaneously disappointed and appreciative. "Thanks." He turns to face the direction he's going, still glancing over his shoulder reassuringly. "I'll see you tomorrow."

I go inside and lock the door, leaning back on it. My cheeks fill with nervous breath before I slowly exhale.

_Damn. Should've invited him in before he changes his mind. _


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N-Hi there! Sorry, I finished this story and posted in on AO3 already. I realized today that a few people here were reading it. So I'm updating it all. Should be all updated on this site today or tomorrow._

_I've already started a new Fleabag Fic. I'll try to add that here soon. _

_Thanks for reading!_

**###**

**Proof and Penance**

My door buzzes earlier than I'd expected, and when I glance out through the window I see him, The Priest, Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows nervously. He looks pleased for just one moment as I open the door, then he hears the garbled cooing sound that comes from the nephew I'm carrying on my hip. He stares at the baby with a wild tuft of blond hair and clear blue eyes, and he replies, "Fuck!" loudly, an involuntary reaction to something so unexpected.

"Looks like you've learned to talk to babies," I joke. "Could use a _little _work—"

"Sorry," he interrupts, apologizing to a child who clearly isn't old enough to comprehend. "Sorry," he repeats to me.

I can see him running thoughts through his head before he says, "You didn't tell me..."

"Should I have?" I ask, perplexed. Then, suddenly understanding his confusion, I blurt, "He's Claire's. Jesus, he's not _mine_!"

"Oh," he doesn't hide his relief well, "okay."

"Not yours either, at least not that I know of." I tease, "Want me to double check with Claire on that?"

"No, thanks...I think I'm covered."

"My sister's getting a shower, so I'm looking after him. I doubt she'll leave him with me for long. She can't check into the hotel until a little later."

"Whew," he sighs animatedly, still coming down from the scare.

"Don't faint on my fucking doorstep! Come in."

He enters, looking around my new place, still not dressed in cleric's clothes, save the black pants.

"Need a drink?" I offer.

"Water, please," he replies. Then he notices my clothing and says, "You look lovely. It's good to see you again."

"You too," I reply, looking down at my nephew, who is monitoring me with disapproving suspicion as I get our visitor a glass. "Do you get the feeling he doesn't trust me?" I ask, nodding at the child.

The Priest chuckles, "He is a suspicious one."

"That is exactly the same look his mother gives me about seventy-percent of the time."

Pointing at the boy, he says, "You gave me quite a scare. I think your future as a practical joker is bright."

"I know you don't like babies, so—"

"It's not that I don't like them. I'm just not...well-versed. I've baptized a few these last couple of years."

"Pretty much the same as having your own, isn't it?"

He laughs uncomfortably. _Why is his awkwardness so ridiculously sexy? _

Claire walks in, looking with a suspicion that is mirrored in her offspring, and she says, "Oh. Hello, Father. What's going on?" turning her questioning eyes to me.

"See the resemblance?" I ask him.

He looks back and forth at the child and Claire, and replies, "Yea. It's pretty clear now."

"You're here about our Dad or…?" Claire continues.

"He's just here to…" I falter.

"I'm here to…" he searches for an explanation.

"He's coming to that bizarre family hospital party," I say.

We look back and forth at each other, and he suddenly declares (like all of this is uncomplicated and normal), "I'm here to see your sister, catch up."

"Yea," I agree. "We have a _lot _of catching up to do."

Claire's eyes widen slightly, but she simply nods and sighs, "Oh—kay."

"Congratulations on the baby," he tells her.

"Thank you," she says, giving a look to me before she shakes her head and secretively asks-slash-accuses, "The Priest? Really?"

I shrug.

"Well today sounds like lots of fun," Claire dryly replies. Taking her child, she adds, "Ready to head over now? Do we all_ have _to ride together?"

**###**

Dad looks pretty good, given the circumstances, and (as expected) Godmother is aflutter with excitement, fussing over a few wheeled hospital tables with little plates of food on them. She also has champagne. _Who doesn't want to celebrate the heart attack of a loved one with drinks in the morning? _

I'm largely silent, sometimes listening, other times doing my very best not to listen. But I spend both the listening and non-listening time watching my Priest and the easy way he steps into all of this. Although most of the get-together is exhausting, I enjoy watching him. _It's kind of like a nature documentary...Priest in the Wild. _

Until Godmother boldly announces, "You know you very nearly had the opportunity to perform a second wedding for our family?"

"Oh really!" He replies excitedly, glancing toward Claire as he confirms, "Who's getting married?"

"She_ was,_" Godmother points at me.

"Oh," he replies, blanching as he nods awkwardly like the suggestion doesn't impact him personally. "How nice."

"Didn't work out for some reason none of us will ever understand." Godmother focuses on me and continues, "Can't believe you let that one go. Successful, wealthy, handsome. You wouldn't have had to waste time running your silly little café anymore. He was quite a step up for you. I mean let's be honest, Darling, you're not exactly the most photogenic person. Sometimes I wonder if you ever grew out of that boyish phase at all. Of course I suppose there are all sorts out there. Maybe he was into that kind of thing."

I look at my Priest, at the confused and slightly offended expression on his face, and I see his desire to say something in my defense. Cautiously, he begins, "Well, that's not _quite _—"

I interrupt, resigned to this humiliation, and redirect, "How you feeling, Dad?"

Weakly, Dad answers, "Oh, I'm doing just f-f-fine, really and—"

Godmother continues undeterred, "She hid the man from all of us like she was embarrassed or something, then finally introduced us after they were already engaged." She turns to me, "I've never understood why you're so secretive."

"That is a mystery," I reply.

"I was so excited at the thought that she may actually find someone to settle down with. They say there is someone for _everybody_…you've heard that, I'm sure."

"Of course," The Priest replies.

"But I suggested immediately that she give you a call to see if you could perform the ceremony. You did such a lovely job at ours. The fleeting fiancé liked the idea, didn't he?"

Everyone in the room (including the nurse's assistant) is staring at me in search of a response. "Yes."

Turning to The Priest, Godmother continues, "We could have started our own family tradition, you performing each of our weddings. Wouldn't that have been something special?"

He smiles tensely, and for a few seconds, I wonder if he's about to make a rather impactful confession to the entire family. With a breath that helps him re-center, he finally replies, "It would be..._something_…"

I try again to change the subject, "So—"

Until Godmother blathers on (_I swear she knows how uncomfortable this conversation is making all of us, and it just encourages her). _"I found the number to your church, gave it to her, and the next thing I knew, she vanished from the party. The lovely man found her having a cigarette beside the house, hiding for some inexplicable reason, and when she saw him, she ended the entire relationship on the spot. We have a theory about why she broke it off."

"Well, that's not really any of our business—" The Priest begins.

"—maybe the thought of an actual wedding, you know, following through with it, scared her off. Not everyone is capable of such a significant commitment."

"That must be it," I mumble.

"Love is a tricky thing," he defends, "filled with light and darkness, all of that pain and sadness crammed in there right next to the joy and passion."

"So poetic," Godmother fawns.

"But it has to be right. You can't make yourself love someone you don't love," he adds. "Nor can you easily turn it off once you've found it...even if you wanted to. Even if it scares you half to death or makes you do the craziest, most irresponsible things."

"What sorts of irresponsible things?" she asks, leaning in, eager for a scandalous tale.

"Well," he evades, "all sorts."

He quickly turns to Dad, asking him about how he feels, and if he'd like a prayer.

I find any reminder of the religious aspects of this man I'm so drawn toward very disconcerting (although he's suggested he's ready to make a change, he doesn't seem to love his God or his faith any less). I can't help but wonder, if he wants both me _and_ God, how all this could possibly work out well for me this time around.

While everyone is distracted, I sneak out of the room to take a walk. I wander the hall for a few minutes, eventually coming to a waiting room with a tall, wide window looking out. I don't smoke often any more (not that I'd be permitted to here), but if I had a pack, I'd probably light up on the spot and wait to be escorted from the premises.

He saunters up beside me after a short while (_so weird how he's always able to find me_), standing too close for our connection to appear casual, questioning, "Did you really break off your engagement like that?"

I pause since I don't really want to discuss this. "Yeah," I eventually answer, giving as little information as possible.

"Anything to do with the suggestion to call me?" he carefully asks after I could have had at least two puffs of a cigarette that doesn't exist.

I pause, pressing my lips together tightly as I consider my answer. But I shrug and confess, "Perhaps."

He nods, his hands folded in front of him. After thought, at a nearly inaudibly low volume, he says, "Thank you."

"For what? Being pathetically hung up on someone who didn't want me?"

"For not _forgetting_." He glances at me after the words are spoken, waiting for me to look back. I do, sharing a flicker of a smile. He continues, "Loving someone isn't pathetic, it's brave. I admire your courage. Took me a little longer to summon up enough of my own."

Recalling my stepmother's words, and seeking the comfort of humor, I flippantly suggest, "Not sure what all this says about you, coming back for someone who is apparently scared of commitment, wastes her time running a silly café, and apparently still looks like a boy."

"You'd think an artist would have a better understanding of beauty," he flirts.

"I see her point. Tall, hardly any tits—"

"Wait, wait, wait," he laughs as he interrupts. He leans his shoulder closer, shaking his head and whispering, "I can _personally _vouch for the fact that you have very lovely tits."

"Thank you, but—"

"No, no. Now you listen...in case you've forgotten, I've seen your tits. Touched them. Even tasted them," he disappears into a memory for a second, and I enjoy watching him go there and gradually return. The thoughts crackle between us like the residual energy from that night together is still present around us. When he realizes I'm watching him quietly, studying the flush that's spread over his ears and neck and is slowly creeping onto his cheeks, he adds like he's scolding me, "If you can't be nice to them...I will."

"Promise?" I ask with a nervous half-laugh. I can't let myself get too carried away less than 24 hours after he walked back into my life. _Damn I want him. _

"Yea," he enthusiastically nods. "I do."

"I...have to open the café," are the words that emerge.

"Say goodbye to everyone first?" he suggests, nodding back in the direction of Dad's room.

We walk in together and barely a minute passes before he looks at me and asks loudly enough for everyone to stop, "You about ready to head out?"

"Uh…sure," I reply as my entire family turns and looks at me.

"You're leaving _together _?" Godmother asks.

"Yea," he answers plainly (just like he'd bluntly answered her questions the night I'd met him), "I enjoy the company."

Godmother fawns (although she's not pleased underneath), "Oh, how adorable. You two are...little friends then?"

I nod, sort of. _Something like that. _

**_###_**

Back at the café, he orders a few pastries for homebound parishioners he's going to visit. On his way out the door, he turns back and asks, "Can I call you when I'm done?"

It's funny that he still doesn't have my number (never has had it), but I give it to him and wonder if he'll ever use it, or if I'll spend the evening glancing down at my phone to see if I've missed a call.

But he does call. And that night and the following three days I see him, sometimes at the café or for a meal or a walk or simply to run errands.

The tension is so thick in the most wonderful ways, those little touches zing and zap through me, but little else happens. And oddly enough, I love every sexlessly connected moment, even though the desire that's built up is far greater than it had been our first time around (and that's saying something). After each of those meetings, I rush home alone, bringing myself to more than my fair share of mind-blowing orgasms. _I wonder if he's broken the rules and jerked himself off, or if he's gone to sleep horny and tense, left to dream. _

I don't know if the lack of physical contact is vow-related or for some other reason, but part of me doesn't even want to ask why we've avoided the topic (or the activity) because I don't want what's here to end.

I'd wished I'd held onto it last time.

**###**

He invites me to the church tonight, something I have mixed feelings about. _I swear, at every fucking step I wait for him to suddenly announce, "Are you mad? Of course I'm choosing God." _

With each passing minute, I'm less convinced of my ability to cope with it if it goes wrong.

But the invitation seems to be designed to lift the ban on my presence here (although we keep our hands and other various parts to ourselves), taking me up into the bell tower to look at the place where the bells can be rung by hand using long, thick ropes. It's one of his favorite places in the building. It is beautiful, eerily quiet, and powerfully romantic. "I will miss it up here," he notes, although not in a woeful or regretful way. It's more of a statement of fact.

An hour or so after we leave, we end up on opposite ends of my sofa. And I finally ask, "Want G&Ts?" for the first time since we've met again. _If he's lifted the church ban, seems only fair for me to lift mine. _

"Please," he answers, seeming to understand that I, too, am cautiously dismantling these boundaries between us.

He's tucked in a corner of my sofa, sock-covered feet up on my coffee table, sipping on the can and savoring it, not really watching the movie that's playing. I'm at the other end, like this is an ordinary moment shared by a normal couple on any given evening.

I'm laughing at something he's said, some little flirtation that is built upon hundreds of other flirtations, when he pensively states, "You never really told me what weighs so heavily on your heart."

My laughter abruptly stops, and I sit upright from my more reclined position as he does the same. "What makes you think I haven't?"

"I can feel it." He's not lying. _It is both wonderful and horrible how much he sees, hears, and knows. _

Redirecting on impulse and habit, I return, "What about you? Something obviously happened that made you decide you needed peace enough to give up nearly everything to become a priest. I'm sure I don't have that whole story either." I ask both because I want to know, and because I'm challenging him to give an answer I do not think he will give.

He studies me, and I have the impression that he wants to hold his story and make a bargain, to trade his for mine and make me promise to tell. But although the look he gives requests it, he makes no formal arrangement.

"As a child, everything around me, my entire _world, _was chaos," he says, rubbing his face as he leans forward, his elbows resting on his knees. I can see the way he's transported as I wonder if this was a story he'd meant to tell me long ago. "My parents despised one another, fighting about everything day after day. I have no idea why they tried to be together. My mother would decide to leave in the middle of the night after this fight or that, dragging my brother and me out from our beds in the dark to stay at some hotel or on a friend's sofa. My father was...not an understanding man, angry. So very angry. My brother was always so…" He pauses, some thoughts not emerging, although they don't need to be verbalized for me to understand. He shakes his head, fighting the sadness of these memories. "It was constant turmoil. I left home early on, convinced and certain I could do it all better on my own. I spent years and years trying to fill the hole in me with sex and relationships, and sometimes drugs, and things...lots of _things_. I found myself in these relationships that weren't all that different from my parents'. And I was angry. Too angry to trust anyone, searching for meaning in the wrong places. And since each relationship didn't fill that void, I kept looking to the next and the next and the next."

I move a little closer just to be nearer to him.

He turns and looks at me, and I see the sad hesitation behind his eyes. "There's more, if you want to hear it," he whispers.

"Go on."

"I was out with a friend, drinking. He was...not in a good place. He needed a friend...a _good _friend. I was rebounding from a failed romance that had actually meant something to me, and I met yet another woman there. I already knew that things would never, ever work between us, but in my quest to fill that bottomless void, I chose to go home with her rather than feel anything. So after I left, he got in his car, and as often happens, driving when one can barely walk didn't end well."

"He died?" I asked.

"I kept thinking that I should have been in that car," he states more loudly in response. "I just...wanted it all to stop, the noise, the chaos, that endless need, the feeling of chasing something I was never going to find. I was tired of making decisions that only caused me and everyone around me pain. So I gave away nearly everything I had, traded it all for a life where things seemed so much simpler. And I found what I thought I needed: Peace. Simplicity."

I rest my hand on his wrist, and he quickly slides back until our fingers interlock. This hold he has on me isn't meant to be romantic or even sexual. No, he's hanging on, clinging, trying not to lose something.

He looks at me, eyes questioning, wondering about my reaction, and when I open my mouth with the intention of offering words of empathy and reassurance, I choose a different path, one that lets him know he's not alone, he's understood. Something compels me to speak.

I tell him about Boo, _completely against my better judgment_. I'm not sure how much he learns because I'm speaking the words to tell him, and how much he learns because he's actually climbed into my thoughts to see the whole thing.

But he knows now, all of it.

"I can't believe I told you that," I finally admit when I look down and still see our fingers tightly interwoven, realizing that he hasn't run screaming or distanced himself.

Silence roars in my ears, his response taking a small eternity. "What a terrible weight to carry," he says with eyes brimming with empathy.

"For you, too."

"Have you asked for forgiveness?"

I remind, "Atheis—"

"I know, I know. I don't mean from God. I mean from your friend. From Boo."

"She's dead, so—"

"Well, you've mentioned your preference for science over faith. And scientifically, energy can't be created or destroyed, it simply changes form, right? That doesn't sound all that different from what I believe, in its way. And she sounds like...so much energy. Such a force of a human. That much energy must still be out there in the world, somehow, in bits and pieces everywhere, left behind in the things and the people she touched. Little bits of her in the café, and even in you. So all you have to do is ask her. And whether she's a soul in Heaven or those pieces of energy that zip all around us...I think she'll know. Can't hurt to try it some time."

"I might."

"I hope you do."

He cradles my cheek with that same adoration he had long ago, looking deeply into my eyes, and that powerful longing that comes from him is not less. In fact, I think it's greater. Stronger.

It feels like it takes years for our lips to come close enough to touch, and when they do, it's shockingly tender for those first few seconds, just the softness of two people eliminating the space between them.

One of us (or maybe both) gasps, vulnerable and shaky, and that one need-filled sound ends the tenderness. This kiss transforms to the fiery collision we're more accustomed to (if one can become accustomed to something that has happened only a handful of times before). Our bodies, our breath, our longing, and our shared empathy all collide.

It's like the moment when a person slowly starving to death finds a plate of food, shoveling it in without thought of utensils, politeness, or good judgment...it's only about taking what is so desperately needed.

He leans toward me, over me, hands sliding down my sides to my waist and tugging until I'm on my back on the sofa. This connection never breaks, the desire never falters, fingers tunneling through hair and grasping at necks and backs and shoulders. There's something horribly arousing about the way he hovers over me on the narrow cushions, bracing his body as he lowers until the weight of him is more fully against me. I sigh in satisfaction with every bit as much pleasure as far more intimate sexual acts typically elicit, but the feeling of his body on mine is something I've needed, but never thought I would experience again.

It's a shame the desirous side of this man was ever suppressed, as it is powerful and full, consuming him, consuming me.

My knee raises to cradle his hip, my heel pressing down against the back of his leg to encourage that closeness. I'm not sure there will ever be enough to quench the need that drives us.

I am absolutely shameless in my endeavor to be nearer, my hips grinding against his. The sound of those soft groans he makes that have never left my memory are paired with those that come from him right now. He seems as bound to this moment with me as I am with him, like we're powerless to slow down or break away or make any other choice.

His mouth slides down my neck with impatiently lusty kisses while his hands work up my top. He plucks at my bra like there might be a front clasp, but when there isn't, he shoves his hand up underneath because he doesn't want to reach behind me or fumble around. He needs to touch me right now. I can feel this during every second of our encounter, through every sense, like seeing a truth laid bare, his deep carnal desires, too often restrained, emerging with feral intensity.

Hand groping under my shirt and chin pushing the fabric aside from the opening at the top, he manages to free my breast, lips surrounding my nipple as my hands hold his head against me just in case he thinks for even a second about pulling away.

I scratch my fingers at the back of his head and feel him push forward against me, his cock hard and pressing against my thigh, our waiting bodies separated only by a few measly layers of cloth that feel like the worst barrier I've encountered.

But he rocks against me, providing the friction I crave as our mouths seek each other again, hands pawing all over me from one place to the next, too restless to settle, wanting to feel all of me as I do him.

All of the pain- and complication- and commitment-free orgasms I've had these last many times I've had sex don't feel anywhere near as good as the feeling of finally having this man in my embrace again.

By the time I realize an orgasm is approaching, it's too late, my body not caring how (or how quickly), but just chasing that release that feels unavoidable because I'm connecting with him again. I'm still in my jeans and he in his trousers, caught in this moment where my entire world consists of the delightful tension that's building between my thighs, the feeling of his touch, the slight scratch of the stubble on his cheek, the insistent kisses that illustrate his adoration, the firmness of his erection that indicates his desire.

I cum there, clothes hardly displaced, knowing my excitement is caused by far more than the physical stimulation I'm feeling. And I completely unravel, loudly, openly. There's no way I'm hiding my response, or that he might not realize what's happening. My fingers are grasping at him, pinching his flesh to keep him close. The "Oh gods" I speak begin as expressions of bliss and eventually become related to the embarrassment I feel for finding satisfaction so easily. "Sorry," I say into his shoulder. So much for playing it cool.

"Why?" he practically sings, looking so joyful when he lifts up so I can meet his eyes.

"So embarrassing."

"It's not," he shakes his head, those primal instincts and desires still sparking beneath the surface. "I really love it. I want to do that again and again, every chance we get."

I try to work my hand between us, wanting to get to him, to get any and all coverings out of the way and feel him plunge into me because I cannot wait to have him inside me. He is all I want right now. Any caution I have within me is forgotten as arousal, love, and hope take over and demand that all reservations be damned. I want the heaviness of his body against mine, and the insistence of him within me, filling me as we find that connection we haven't explored nearly enough.

He pulls my hands up over my head, holding them down with his palms, staring into my eyes. "You okay?" he asks for a moment.

"Me? I'm really _good_," I nod. "Now take your fucking trousers off."

His grin swallows his expression as he quickly shakes his head. Holding my hands beneath one of his, he looks down my body at the snap on my jeans and pops it open, lowering the zipper as his stare returns to my eyes. Getting me off turns him on, arouses him so greatly that he looks like he could ignite (not from celestial intervention but from sheer fucking excitement).

I look down as he does, both of us watching his hand disappear into my pants, his fingers finding my wetness there in the dark. He slides one finger through the crevice, seeking more of me, finding my sex soaked and swollen both from the release I've already had and the need-filled desire that has yet to be satisfied as my hips rise to meet his touch.

My demands for him to strip down fall soft for now, swept up in the feeling of being touched and stroked and caressed in such a thorough and thoughtful way.

We both groan when he pushes his fingers into me, burying his face against my neck, his breath slipping over my skin in hot, quick pants. Here we slow, just enough.

He listens to my body like he listens to my words, reacting and adjusting, knowing what I want because he truly _wants _to hear every last thought. And this would be downright weird or disconcerting if it didn't feel so damn _perfect_.

The only thing I want that he doesn't provide is the feeling of him truly inside me, that glorious pressure and frantic meeting of bodies that will build and last until he cannot resist his culmination, too. Even the thought of him finding his own peak and releasing within me, collapsing in a sweaty, spent pile of limbs drives me higher.

It's not like I can (or want) to resist this second orgasm, and it hits and seizes me hard, my body overtaken with a need that started to build two years ago and is finally being resolved now. My legs twist together, holding his fingers inside me while the strongest pulses gradually fade. The pads of his fingertips push against my inner walls, providing that careful counterpressure to the clenching within until I finally begin to return to normal.

"I love you," he says without prompting, softly bobbing his head. It didn't take long to get him to admit it this time around, nor does he sound hesitant to make it known. His nose traces up my neck to my ear as he repeats those words again, but with greater devotion and certainty. "It's okay if you don't—"

"I love you, too," I say without hesitation, my voice tired and raspy from the cries of pleasure that I made with far more volume and vigor than I'd realized. "I do."

The rest is implied...that I hope I won't get hurt, that I hope this is something that might work out for once. Even though the thought of some happy outcome seems like a silly fairy-tale fantasy, I allow the ideas into my brain.

I reach for his belt again though, and he pulls away, sitting on the edge of the sofa, taking my hand and gently holding it to his chest.

"What?" I ask, waiting for what may come.

"I can't just yet," he carefully says.

"What's wrong, you on your period?" I grin. "I don't mind."

He smirks, even when he's so somber, I can get a smile from him. "Soon."

"Oh god," I shake my head, prepared for the worst that seems destined to come as punishment for even considering happiness as a possible outcome.

"I haven't changed my mind! Nothing has changed about how I feel about you, or my resolve to be with you if you'll have me." He argues, voice elevated. "I just—it's not...I don't... I don't deserve…"

"Deserve what? An orgasm? Because you do. You really fucking do."

"I don't deserve…" he ponders, wrestling with something still.

"Is this some kind of weird penance?"

He shrugs, the conflict in him apparent once again.

"Well, what if we agree to just have sex for my benefit alone." I playfully suggest. "You can lie back and I'll have my little way with you, and you promise not to enjoy it."

He bows his head, softly chuckling, "I don't think I can do that."

"Worth a try?"

"I should be going." He stands, trying to hand-iron out the wrinkles in his shirt. He explains, "I am sincere about all of this. I'm tired of...tired of living in pseudo-peaceful half-truths. I have a meeting tomorrow with the Bishop to discuss my exit."

"You do?" I ask, sounding so intensely surprised that I've probably offended him a bit.

"Yea. I'm not sure what happens to my self-restraint when I'm with you. I was trying to wait, hold off, until I have something to offer you, some evidence of my intentions, so I can prove to you—"

The door buzzes loudly in interruption, and when I don't immediately answer, there's the sound of a fist pounding on it. This all feels so oddly familiar. Gorgeous Assistant is calling for me from the other side.

I stand, fixing my clothing as well. "It's my assistant," I tell my Priest.

"Oh," he nods, doing his absolute best to play it cool. "Your assistant, the man from the café…"

"Yea. Him. Do you need to sneak out the back or—"

"Do you want me to?"

"I've nothing to hide," I say bluntly.

"Good."

"Alright. But I should probably talk to him."

"And I should go. Pam'll be waiting up. She does that lately to make sure I'm home safe."

I watch him as he's looking toward the door, and note the expression on his face. And it's a funny thing, because our outcome has always seemed to hinge on whether he'd choose the priesthood or me. But right now, he's just as concerned that I'll choose emotionally celibacy over a relationship with him.

He doesn't want to leave me with the man I've been having sex with any more than I want to leave him to his parish, each fearing the ultimate decision the other will make.

I shout to my assistant that I'll be right there when he knocks on the door again. The Priest nods and says, "Sorry, I have to go."

"It's fine," I walk him to the door. We pause there, staring silently, and he tries so hard to hide the concern on his face. I'm tempted to let him leave without reassurance or promises, but I won't do that. "I'm not going to have sex with him," I say, directly.

"I didn't ask."

"I know. That's the only reason I'm telling you."

He breathes a laugh and nods. Barely a heartbeat passes before he slams me to the wall with that same cold-to-white-hot in three seconds flat trajectory all of our encounters share, this kiss, too, reminding me of how very much I wish he could stay.

He pulls back, breathless, lovey eyed. "I'll come 'round tomorrow afternoon. After my meeting."

"At the café. I'll be there."

"Good. Okay." He reaches for the doorknob.

"Good luck with the Bishop."

"Thank you. Good luck with...," he nods his head towards the man outside.

He walks out as my assistant comes in. My Priest looks back at me, and I see that one last longing glance he gives, and realize that this time around, he truly fears I may choose another path.

_I fucking won't. _


	3. Chapter 3

**Ruining It**

Afternoon turns to evening, the hopeful smile on my face gradually diminishing as the hours grow later without a word from him about his meeting with the Bishop. I consider sending a text, something funny, just to get a response. Nothing funny comes to mind.

I keep the café open later than usual, figuring I'll be sitting here anyway, and oddly enough, there are still customers in the corner. They look like they're on a date. A good one. _Disgusting_.

I check my phone for messages or calls (or maybe a sign from God), noting the hour and deciding it's time to close up. For a second, old habits make me wish I hadn't told Gorgeous Assistant I couldn't have sex with him (consolation sex might feel better than stewing on my own disappointment), but that passing thought just harshly reminds me of how much I want my Priest.

I didn't realize how hopeful I was that this might work out until just now.

The door opens loudly, and I watch him finally trudge through the door. The Priest looks awful, wrecked, like he'd been in a battle with God Himself on his way here. _How is it that even when he looks truly awful, he's still so hot?_

As I look him over, he appears lost and hurt, like a man suffering heartbreak. "Hello," he says as soon as he's at the counter.

"Hi," I reply, awaiting whatever comes next.

"Sorry it took me so long."

"It's alright," I reply, nodding. I'm concerned, and that shows in the way he reacts to my expression.

The customers leave, so I walk over to lock the door, turning around and seeing him standing there in the middle of the space. Noting his look of defeat, I anticipate rejection yet again. And even though my heart drops to the floor, waiting to be crushed again, I feel for him, and the pain he's obviously in.

Stepping up until we're nearly against each other, he brings his face to my neck as my hand rests in his hair. I ask, "You okay?"

"Yea," he mutters.

"Look, I get it," I state, trying to sound (and be) understanding. "It's like a marriage ending, isn't it?"

"Yea," he laughs sadly, lifting his head. "It really is."

"Guess that makes me the homewrecker." Trying to joke just makes it all sound sadder.

"No." With the tiniest hint of a smile that seems to require great effort, he adds, "It was a joint pursuit."

"I'll be okay, you know?" I say certainly. Pulling back a little, I see the question in his eyes, and I add, "If you don't want to leave the ch—"

"Stop that," he interrupts, voice raised and instantly frustrated. "I fucking want to be here with you, that's why I'm here. I've told them I'm leaving, and that's done. Now if you want out, you'll have to say it for yourself."

His words come as a challenge, and at the same time, he's seeking confirmation that I'm still in this. (After all, when he left the night before, I was alone with my tall, handsome, twenty-something assistant, and I knew The Priest wasn't quite certain if I'd choose safety and simplicity over this crazy mess we've made together.)

"No." I chuckle from the intensity of his response, even though it isn't really funny. More composed, I restate, "No, I do not want out. But you look absolutely miserable."

His hands each find my hips. His mouth comes forward a bit, and he pauses and says, "Well, you should've seen me in the days after we parted ways. Do you have any idea the sheer amount of denial and alcohol that are required to keep a man going after he loses someone like you?"

"So I drove you to an unhealthy state?" I chuckle. "I can see why you'd want me."

"More like lack of you." He pauses, taking two distinct breaths in to complete one full inhale. "You know that was part of what made me realize how badly I fucked up."

"What was?"

"Dragging my feet one morning getting to the toilet, I kicked the bin, practically fell over it. I looked down and saw the number of bottles I'd emptied. I'm more than capable of consuming my fair share, I know this, but it was more than normal even for me...and I started to think...if this is peace, why am I trying so hard to numb it?"

I don't respond, what words are there that can be said?_ I think I may've broken him._

"Do you want to be with me? Or at least try to?" he asks softly. "All I ask is the truth."

"Yea. But I don't want the choice to make you miserable."

"That's it exactly...it's the choice, the change that hurts. It isn't you. I thought I finally had it all figured out, that the priesthood was where I belonged...and I was wrong. I know what, and who, I want. This change, my leaving the church, is the right choice, it's just not easy."

"You could keep on priesting, and we could see each other quietly. I don't need people to see me with someone on my arm."

"No," he adamantly shakes his head. "To keep you in the shadows implies shame. I don't want to hide you."

"Could be hot," I try to lighten the mood.

"Not for long. I need to find another way to serve. I'm not giving up God or my beliefs...just the Catholic priesthood. Is that going to bother you?"

"Is it going to bother you that I'm not giving up my disbeliefs?"

He suggests, "Who knows? I seem to remember bringing you to the verge of some pretty loudly screamed prayers once or twice."

I chuckle awkwardly, "I don't think your God wants those prayers."

"Why not?" he counters. "God made sex just as He made everything else. And anyone who mentions the antiquated view that its primary purpose is about procreation has never experienced the gorgeous intensity, the absolute erotic bliss of being inside you when you orgasm. That's not 'necessary,' but it's fucking beautiful."

_Which of these tables do you think is sturdy enough?_

"I have something to tell you, though." Nervously, he adds, "I told them I'd stay on for a month to give them time to find a replacement. What do you think?"

"That's your choice."

"It's just temporary."

"I know." A thought strikes me, so I ask, "You don't actually intend to continue with this ridiculous no-gratification thing for thirty days?"

"Ideally. Yea."

_Trust me, even he doesn't believe that._

He tempts, "But...the very least I can do is make sure your needs are satisfied."

It's the subtleties with him, the way he only just pulls his lower lip into his mouth and lets his tongue touch it.

_I can actually feel that on my clit._

"What?" he asks.

"Nothing, I just…" I look at him, seeing the sorrow still behind his attempts to hide it. I wonder if he horribly underestimates my feelings for him, and he's worried I'll see someone else in these days before he's completely free.

The thing is, I want to know what's going on in his head, his every thought, every desire, every secret, as much as he wants to know my mind. Because no matter what, this isn't, and never was, just lust and sex. I think maybe it's always been love.

He's so wounded, really fucking wounded. As I consider the world-weary look in his eye, I have an idea. "The last thing you need right now is what would amount to massively unsatisfying foreplay. At least for you. Doesn't seem right." I tell him. "What you need, is a friend."

"Okay," he says, letting go of me, taking a step back, hands signalling surrender. He looks so intensely stung, but he says, "I understand."

I grab his forearm before he can escape, and I counter, "I can desire you with powerful levels of intensity and still be a friend. Come on."

**###**

We're in the changing room of a store soon to close. I snuck in here with him after grabbing a few items as quickly as I could.

I unbutton his black shirt for him as he stands there, remembering the first time I helped him try on his little outfits when I sat on the outside, the pair of us divided by a very thick, very black, very Catholic-looking curtain that's nowhere to be seen here.

I slide my fingers under the shirt to push it off, seeing the hunger in his eyes as he lilts, "You do this for all your friends in times like these?"

"Not sure. You're the first to leave the priesthood." I hold up three shirts. "Which one?"

"It doesn't matter."

"I remember how happy dress shopping makes you...they have some here. Want me to pop out and grab a few for you to try on? Certainly won't have the flair of the outfits you're used to, but there's a much wider selection, and you'll get to show a little leg."

"How kind." His sullenness cracks at the reference. He looks at the shirts I'm holding up and points. "That one."

I help him with this new shirt, buttoning it for him as he stares with those chronically searching eyes. It isn't meant to be sexually charged, but it is. We are so very close, and it would be too easy to let him kneel in front of me. I'm tempted to invite him to do just that.

"You look good," I tell him, as I brush out a few wrinkles.

**###**

With his old black shirt stowed in a plastic bag, we take a long taxi ride to a strange building in a nowhere place. It was a dilapidated cinema, no longer used until a film school picked it up and did some repairs. Now certain nights of the week they run old films or even student pieces. It's horror night.

I think at first he finds this choice of activities insensitive, but once we're in our seats, staring up at the grainy film that started a while ago, he turns his attention to the screen. I hand him a flask that we pass back and forth. It isn't long before he's jumping in his seat at this scare or that, or leaning closer to me at tense moments when some horrid thing is predicted. Some of the effects are so bad, we have no choice but to laugh.

Nearing the end of the second movie, he practically jumps again, reaching across and holding my arm. Then he turns and laughs softly, amused by his own reactions, that liveliness that defines him now beginning to return.

I watch his face flicker both from his own expressions and the lights cast off from the screen. I like this closeness, our arms meeting on the rest between our chairs. We have to get very near to whisper words to each other just so we can hear. Sometimes we touch accidentally as we lean in or exchange the flask or whisper, and sometimes the touches are more intentional.

_He really is so beautiful_.

I think even he's surprised that this distraction is working.

On the taxi ride after we leave, he says with overt disappointment, "Guess I should be getting back."

So tired, we both lean our heads against the seatback, facing each other as we talk. "Or you could stay at mine," I suggest like that is the obvious plan.

"I don't know—"

"Do you really want to go back to your church housing tonight?"

His face scrunches unhappily as he looks up, and I already know duty is winning this fight.

I coax, "Come with me. I'll be a gentleman tonight. Unless you beg me to change my mind." Refusal still seems likely, so I add, "Call Pam, and tell her you found someone who really needs your support tonight. It's not a lie."

He chuckles and shakes his head like he's going to decline, but he says, "Okay," and finally adds a little nod.

**###**

I take him to my room even though I probably should offer him the sofa or another place to sleep. _Remember the last time we were on that sofa?_

He looks around the lamp-lit bedroom and notes, "So cozy."

"Thanks."

I pull back my covers after he takes off his shoes and strips down to his shorts, and I gesture for him to climb in. He pulls the blankets around him, sighing as he relaxes. He looks beyond exhausted and worn out, like he really, truly needs some place warm and comforting to rest. His eyes, sleepy and enamored, look at me in the sweetest way that cuts through my armour.

"Thank you," he says, a few words conveying many thoughts.

When the urge to kiss him, climb on top of him, and do something to make him feel much better becomes almost irresistible, I prepare to retreat, saying, "I'm going to have a quick bath and—"

"Why are you doing this?" he insists.

"What? Bathing?"

"All this. This whole evening." He waits patiently, choosing to let silence speak instead of words.

"I think you know why."

"You could tell me anyway, if you'd like."

I smirk fleetingly and say, "I'm sure it has _nothing_ to do with being completely in love with you."

"Of course not." I can see how badly he needed to hear that.

"Why did you decide to stay?" I counter.

He ponders his answer, replying, "You invited me. And..there's nowhere else in this world I'd rather be and no one I'd rather be with."

"Good," I reply with a smile that won't quit. "That's really good."

Not knowing what else to say or how to say it, I head to my bath. By the time I return, he's sleeping soundly, like nothing in the world could wake him.

I get into the bed, giving him enough space, keeping myself at the edge of the mattress. I face him, watching the calm look on his face, and noting the fact that I have someone staying the whole night who doesn't feel like an intruder.

**###**

We're asleep the next morning in the dead center of my bed, his body spooned up behind mine. His hand is pressed against my ribs, holding me tightly against him, his legs perfectly aligned with mine, knees nestled. His face is against my neck and just the feeling of his lips being there against my skin is So. Fucking. Hot.

Of course there's also the matter of the erection he has that's pressed against me with somewhat demanding insistence. _I could definitely help with that._

He stretches a little, his thumb and forefinger curling around the swell of my tit. He's responsible for this closeness, not me. _I'm still being a perfect gentleman. So far._

The fact that I rock back against him with gentle provocation may actually be my fault. He whimper-groans in the sexiest fucking way, the sound hitting my ear and sending a hot pulse all through me. _How can he even think something that feels this good could possibly be worth avoiding?_

I hear him waking, and I await his words, eager to hear what he may think, or some purr of desirous words in my ear. When he speaks he says, "Sorry. Fuck. Sorry."

"Words everyone dreams of waking to."

He rolls back, and I flip around to see him, watching his face scrunch up with determination as he tries to ignore his body's need. I come closer, whispering against his ear, "I want us to be together, to have sex _together_. I want to feel you inside me."

He laughs with a little disappointment and a lot of frustration, "That's not nice."

"You know what's not nice? To wake me in such a tempting manner only to choose to waste a perfectly good erection."

He tries to shake this off, chuckling but not really answering.

I continue, "Look, shouldn't that be one of the perks to your horrible sort-of-break-up yesterday? You go through the pain of ending things, taking that leap. You experience all this turmoil and now you can have a little bit of pleasure, and you don't want it?"

"I told you—"

"I feel you've proven your intentions. I really do. There are no guarantees. Either of us could always make another choice in any given second. That's how life works. Your guilt doesn't bring anything good."

He's arguing silently with himself, still conflicted.

"You want me to get up and out of bed?" I offer.

He shakes his head several times before his words confirm, "Not really."

I slip a leg over him, bringing my still-covered sex right over his and watching his jaw clench in pleasured resistance. His breath is already slightly stuttered, his hands nervously moving toward me.

"Maybe you want to revisit the idea of being my hot, living, breathing sex toy...just lie there and let me have what I want. Is it really that bad if you promise not to enjoy yourself?" I snicker.

"I could try," he says with a smirk that's really a wrinkle at one side of his upper lip.

With determination, I add, "You deserve pleasure. You do."

"Yea, well, so do you. And at this rate, I'm not gonna last. That's not hot."

"Then we'll go at it again later! See, baby, we can work through our problems," I say as a joke, but he pauses as he takes in the words.

Rededicating to keeping this whole interaction light, I add, "Besides, since you're not going to enjoy yourself, you should be able to last indefinitely."

He grins at me, declaring, "Oh, fuck you," with striking adoration, reaching up to stroke my face.

"Well, I'm trying."

"Why do I find it so damn impossible to say 'no' to you?"

"My guess? Because you are extremely sexually frustrated and lonely with a raging hard-on."

He practically giggles. "Always poetry with you."

"What do you say? Want to be used by me for my own tawdry pleasures."

"Yea. I really do." The look he gives me creates a squeezing in my chest that's so full and strong that, for a moment, I think I'm having a heart attack or panic attack...some sort of attack. "You alright?" he asks, his smile faltering.

"Yea. I just—"

"You what?"

"I just…"

"Tell me."

"It's you," I reply, knowing this doesn't sound like the correct response to the question, but at the same time it is the accurate answer.

When he moves to sit up, I plant my palms on the fronts of his shoulders and push him to lie down flat. I lean closer, kissing him softly, slowly, with a patience I have that he likely does not (which is part of the fun).

His hips lift from the bed so he can shove his pants down, pushing his body against mine as I'm balanced low on his abdomen (I'm relieved he's not wearing anything else). We both groan, making the same wanting noises, as this all suddenly feels very serious.

I pull off the nearly worn thin shirt and shorts I like to sleep in, and I swear he salivates, those urges barely restrained are immeasurably erotic. Any pretense of chaste politeness vanishes as he growls when I lift enough to take him, and slowly sink down on his cock, patiently swallowing up his length.

I have imagined, remembered, and craved the heavy fullness of him pushing into my core again, and getting back here together is a type of fulfillment in itself.

My slowness is intentional, making what could be over too quickly last a little longer, savoring his return, the feeling of still unfulfilled longing right on the edge at every second.

His eyes close, his hands white-knuckled on my hips. I watch the tension grow in his jaw and the tendons tighten in his neck as I move in the most patiently deliberate way I'm capable of because I just want to drive him to the point that his careful reservation will snap and he'll have no choice but to let go and fuck me. I've only experienced the times when he casts off his inhibitions and lets loose a few times, but I'm dying to see him free and unrestrained like that again.

His movement beneath me grows wilder, and I hear bits of his muttering, "...how you feel...so..."

"You're not enjoying this, right?" I tease.

His eyes squint shut harder as he ignores me, not really willing (or maybe able) to reply.

My fingers explore his chest and torso, appreciating the fact that this man is mine today. There are so many touches we never got to share.

His fingers run softly up my sides in perfect parallel, each set of thumbs and forefingers taking a nipple, rolling gently a few times and moving with greater firmness each time. When I look at his face now, he's watching me. And in all honesty, I am thinking about how good it would feel to touch myself while he's inside me, thinking that I could probably catch up and still have an orgasm with him even though I wasn't counting on it this time.

And then, like he's perennially reading my mind, he lifts up and props himself on an elbow, and watches the way he disappears into my body. He rests the heel of his hand at the crease of my leg and torso, his thumb reaching over toward my clit. His touch plays with a few levels of pressure and various taps, flicks, and circles all while he stares. When he gets it just right, he states, "That's it," and when I look at him, I see the fully proud, cocky expression on his face.

As confident as he is at this, at his ability to elicit moans and gasps and probably orgasms, making me wetter and hotter for him by the second, I can't even describe how incredibly turned on he is right now, sweat forming along his brow largely from the efforts of self-restraint.

Feeling like he has the upper hand (I can see in his eyes that he thinks so, too), I decide to up my game. Planting my palms on his hips, I start to ride him like I'm really chasing the end, clenching my inner muscles to squeeze him, knowing how easily I can seize the power again. His head presses back into the pillow, attempting composure while consumed by all that is transpiring.

I may regret pushing him hard toward the finish since his control seems to hang on by a bare thread, but it's so fantastic watching him embrace this without guilt or reservation (and, really, my own needs are withering my patience as well). He doesn't have space for guilty feelings right now. Helping him break through his caution and make him fall apart with desire is now my favorite thing to do.

"I missed you," I moan, confessing something that would usually be harder to admit.

He nods adamantly, his thumb picking up the pace of its twirling.

"I've wanted this. I love the feeling of your cock inside me." I cry out, my excitement swelling.

"You have to stop that," he murmurs through clenched teeth. He is so close.

"I want to feel you cum in me."

I interrupt myself with a loud yelp when he flips over, pressing my hips hard down into the bed, our bodies no longer joined. "That's not fair," he argues.

When his grip loosens, I reach for him, asking, "Don't like it when I talk?"

"Like it too much right now."

"Well, I want you to—"

"You know something I've learned about you?" he interrupts, his gaze powerful and piercing although he's smiling as he challenges. "I beg and plead for you to talk to me, to tell me what you think, what you feel...and it's like I have to extract each and every word. But when I ask you not to talk, I can't fucking stop you. You are driving me mad."

I laugh, softly biting my lip to squelch my smirk, and I note the happiness in his eyes. "Guess you'll have to find a way to shut me up."

He moves quickly then, slipping an arm beneath me and moving up the bed, pushing my back against the headboard. Kneeling on the mattress, he uses his body to keep me pinned there. He's so very close to being back inside me again, but just far enough away to make it fully frustrating. "You are an instigator!" he notes.

"I am?" I ask like I'm shocked to hear something that is obviously true.

"Yea. You are."

"And you're an extremist!"

"How's that?" he asks, looking over my body with that same starving expression, making sure he has a solid hold on me. For all of the control he has over his actions, he doesn't have nearly that strong of a hold on the desires beneath.

"You have two settings: complete abstinence, or messing around with dangerously horny women."

"Dangerously horny?" He is very amused by this. "What makes you _dangerously horny_?"

"Stick around and you'll find out." I try to press toward him, hoping to encourage him, but he seems to revel for a moment in the strength of my desire, too.

In a quick burst of action (like his self-control has suddenly failed him), his mouth joins mine in a furtive kiss as he grabs firmly onto my thighs and slides into me in one long, continuous thrust.

And the moans that come from me make it sound like I've been waiting eons to have him inside me, that I _need_ this. He licks his lips when he looks at me, measuring my approval before he sinks back into me again, this time more quickly and bit more roughly before his eyes screw shut and he soaks up these feelings.

"God, just like that," is all I can manage, the only words that really can or need to be said.

He has no verbal response, just a quick, hard stare and slight nod before he plunges back into me. Each time he enters me completely, fully, so we can't move any closer, pausing for just the smallest moment before he withdraws and returns again. His ability to choose the pace of all this is faltering because biology propels him. I really don't want him to hold back, hoping to feel the fullness of his need.

My arms wrap more tightly around his shoulders, my legs around his waist, holding him close both because I need this and because I love him so much that I feel that love even when aroused out of my mind and I just want more closeness. This amount of longing is not normal, especially when I'm already getting what I want.

I move with him perfectly, bodies crashing together like I, too, can see through to the thoughts inside, and what he needs and what he knows and the exact pace with which he'll move. He's holding on like I am, like he _must_, his lips occasionally brushing at my skin.

And then there really aren't thoughts to read or have anymore. There can't possibly be anything in the world that feels as good as being shoved up against a headboard and fucked with ridiculous skill by the man you want more than you've really ever wanted anything, and all the while he's acting like you are the only thing in the world that he could possibly want and the best feeling he's ever had.

I'm a quivering mess, seized by a climax that short circuits me completely, every part of me grasping for every part of him like he's my salvation. I'm clasping and clamping down on his cock in tight, quick spasms. Even the slightest shift makes my clit throb and pulse, skirting on the edge of feeling too good, but since he's right on the verge, I don't want to stop. His pace becomes absolutely frantic to catch up.

The sensations and sounds of my orgasm trigger his own, knowing he doesn't have to wait for anything anymore, and he sounds so relieved not to have to hold back another second. There is something unendingly erotic about the way he cums, the primal groans from basic needs being met, those same needs he'd tried to live without but can't seem to. When he caves to these desires, lets this part of himself free, it's powerful and entire and intense.

My peak slowly recedes when his hips begin to slow, sinking in one final time and staying there, my core pulsing around him in gradually easing waves. I can hear my heartbeat in my ears.

We hold each other right there in place. We don't even move at first, except for the swelling of our chests as we breathe together and my fingers gently stroking the back of his neck.

When he finally moves, his strength is sapped, pulling away reluctantly, his forehead against my shoulder like his head is too heavy. And as much as he fucks with abandon, he's thoughtful and adoring now, helping me back down to the mattress even though he looks like he wants to collapse.

When I'm lying on my back, he drops next to me, his arm over me, head on the pillow beside mine.

"Damn," I say, my hand coming to the back of his head and holding him there.

His eyes grow a little wider and he tilts his head, and I can see he's expressing agreement, but using the fewest syllables or gestures possible to convey that point.

_Is he going to panic or be struck with guilt_?

I think he's sleeping with his eyes open after a few seconds because he's so still, but he asks, "Do you think a dangerously horny woman could be satisfied with one person who's a little out of practice, comes with a lot of baggage, and also has sort of a disgraced priest thing going on?"

I shake my head and stare at the ceiling.

"What?" he asks impatiently.

"I was just imagining what it would have been like if you weren't out of practice." I grin.

He breathes a laugh and looks down, a little hurt that I avoided the question. "I was only—"

"She could," I break in, flirting, rolling to face him. "She has plenty of experience with disgrace and loads of baggage of her own, so that doesn't really bother her. If the man in question is incredibly hot, has years of sexual repression and loneliness to work through, and is currently in this bed...I think something could be worked out."

"Yea?"

"And… …"

"And what?" He's all too ready to hear whatever is unsaid.

I nearly tell him that he may be the only person I think I can ever possibly share something meaningful with. But it's too much to say. Instead I offer, "I can help you with your little problem."

His chest fills with a deep breath, his arm resting heavily on my side. "Which problem is that?"

"Your peace problem. Consider this…right now, your breath is slow and even. Your eyes are sort of unfocused, jaw relaxed, there's not a single spot of tension in you right now. You look quite content."

His chest moves as he chuckles. "Searching for a compliment?"

"No. This, you gorgeous fucking man...is peace. Maybe not constant, but it is peace nonetheless."

He laughs, a bit of confusion in his eyes, and then he looks around and finally agrees, "This is pretty peaceful, isn't it?"

"Yea. And you know what I like most about this peace?"

"What?"

I come closer, my lips barely brushing his, my leg sliding back over his hip. "Ruining it. Then we've no choice but to seek it all over again."


	4. Chapter 4

**Theological Hanky Panky**

My door buzzes early this Wednesday while I'm hurrying to get ready so I can open the café.

_I overslept because my Priest stayed at the church last night, and it's one of the few nights that he's not stayed here so I finally had a chance to catch up on sleep. Not that I prefer sleep if given the choice, just that I needed it. I used to have this fantasy about being with someone after they're released from a prison where they were deprived of all human contact for years so their appetite for sex would be completely ravenous. It's a lot like that, but better because it still has that whole forbidden thing added in. _

I answer the door and find the man I've been thinking about standing there, and my heart still stutters slightly at an unexpected appearance. "Didn't expect to see you this morning," I say, stepping back to allow him in.

He doesn't say a word, reaching behind his back to close and lock the door all while fixed on my face, his gaze playful and desirous. Walking persistently forward, he comes toward me until my back is firmly against the opposing wall.

"Good morning," I offer as his touch roams down my sides to the lowest point on my legs that he can reach from a standing position.

His palms press firmly against each of my outer thighs, sliding up and pulling the skirt higher as he does. Once it's over my hips, he gradually drops down to his knees, staring up at me with those beautifully mischievous dark eyes.

He lowers my underwear only to my knees, which limits my ability to fling my legs around his neck like I really want to. There's no pause, no hesitation here as he brings his face to my pussy and his tongue slides up through my crevice, savoring my body.

I twist and wriggle to get out of my underwear, annoyed that he doesn't have unencumbered access because I went from perfectly at ease to desperately horny in the amount of time it took him to walk through the door and shut it. And now I want it, him, the excitement, the sensation. I tilt my hips and widen my stance, offering myself to him as he takes full advantage.

My moan is long and low, calling out as his mouth surrounds my sex, kissing me with open, full kisses, pausing occasionally to suck my clit more directly, or dip inside me. His tongue is so warm and soft and unrelenting, sliding deftly around at the pace he's already figured out that I want right now. His hand presses against my inner thigh, lifting my leg over his shoulder and letting my knee hook there.

The only thing I'm aware of is him, and me, and the ways I feel right now. It's fucking incredible. And it isn't long at all before my legs begin to lose their steadiness, my hand tightly holding his head against me. I look down and see those gorgeous, searching eyes peering up my body, watching me and all of my reactions. With that look, I'm unraveled.

I'm addicted to the way I orgasm with him. It's so...entire.

My fingers spread through his hair, holding him close for a moment as he stays against me to let the tension abate, carefully lapping up the abundant wetness that he's caused. I grab him by the shoulders of his shirt and pull him up to standing, going right for his belt and undoing his trousers.

"Don't have much time," he cautions, the first words he's spoken to me today.

"You were the one who started it," I accuse with a smirk. "Not that I'm complaining."

"I couldn't wait another moment. I needed to see you."

"Quick then," I suggest, my fingers wrapping around his shaft and pumping, watching the way his face changes at those first contacts and feeling the power I feel from the strength of his response.

I turn away, pushing back against his front, my hands bracing on the wall. I hear him moving quickly behind me. Even the clacking sound of his belt as his trousers lower a bit more turns me on these days. His one hand firmly but carefully holds my hip as he guides himself into my body. His face presses against my back as he exhales slowly as he absorbs the feeling of pushing within.

His hand curls around my front, cupping my mound after he sinks back in a second time, creating wonderful friction there, too.

I tap my watch because I so enjoy playfully antagonizing him. He breathes his chuckle, holding me close and kissing the back of my neck. It's loving. Affectionate. Then it's hot. And desperate. He's everywhere around and within me, his body behind me, that hand pressing against me from the front, his cock within. Each exhaled groan he emits lets me know what all this is doing to him, showing me how very close he is.

It's so fulfilling to get really thoroughly fucked like you're the thing he lusts after most, while still being made love to beneath all that rawness.

The whole encounter is hurried and passionate and just frenzied enough to make it all feel so...wow. There's something so satisfying about a quick round in the foyer because we just cannot wait for tonight to come.

And after, he holds me close for a moment, giving small, thankful kisses and reassuring touches like he wants to make sure I know that there's still love fueling all this.

He leans heavily against me as he sighs the words, "You were right," near my ear.

_Obviously_. "About what?" I ask, spinning in his embrace to face him.

"I should've stayed last night."

"I didn't think I'd see you this morning."

"I know you have to be going," he says as he pulls his trousers back up and fastens them. "But I wanted to tell you they found my replacement a week early. Sunday I'll say goodbye to the congregation and move out from the residence."

_He's been worried they wouldn't find a new priest to take his spot soon enough. _

"You okay?" I ask, knowing that his final exodus from the church is approaching, and the consequences of his choices are coming quickly now.

"I'm ready," he nods certainly.

"You sure?"

"Yea," he smiles, but he's swimming in post-orgasmic relaxation right now, so hopefully he still feels that way later.

Once I've gotten myself ready to leave for the second time this morning, he opens the door so we can both head out, and he nearly crashes into my Dad, who is standing by the door with a finger poised to punch the buzzer. Expecting to see me instead of my Priest, Dad says, "W—well hello, Darling."

"Hello, Dear," my Priest states without missing a beat, maybe because he's trying to be funny, or maybe because he, too, was taken off-guard.

Dad tilts his head in confusion. "You're here… ?"

"Visiting," I supply. Changing the subject, I continue, "You don't come by often. Everything alright?"

"Everything's...fine," Dad says. "You didn't answer your phone yesterday and—"

"—been really busy—"

"We're having dinner tonight before your sister goes back to Finland. Celebrating…" he trails off, patting his heart, "all...okay."

"Dad, I—"

"Come. Okay?" He turns to The Priest and adds, "You're invited, of course. Thank you for...for...uhh...the hospital...visits. You...you should come."

We agree to go, so Dad gives us the details of the meeting, and just before he leaves, he looks at me, observing. I glance down, hoping I didn't make a horrible mistake when re-dressing earlier. He states, "You look...very well."

"Oh!" I respond, relieved. _Thought I left a tit out or something_.

"You look…" he adds, searching his mind for the perfect word (that seems very hard to find). "You look...happy?" There is surprise and hope in his question.

"Yea? Thanks."

He waves, walking away, and my Priest whispers, "You do look happy."

"I think I am," I answer, resisting the urge to grab his shirt and yank him back into the flat.

"And like you've been properly laid."

"That, too."

My Priest considers all this for a moment, and whispers to me, "Kinda romantic, going back to the site of the family gang bang where we met." He can't help but chuckle.

"You remember that?"

"Hard to forget attending anything titled a 'family gang bang.' That kind of thing sticks with you."

"Well, you also watched me assault someone, were inadvertantly assaulted yourself, and thought I had a miscarriage that same night. And still you invited me to visit. Wonder what that says about you."

"Of course I did! That was the most excitement I'd had in ages."

"That's my family."

"If it's alright, I'd like to wait to tell them about us. Just until after Sunday when I say my goodbyes at mass."

"Of course." It's not like I commonly share the details of my life with them anyway.

I expect him to come along with me to work, but he points in the other direction and says, "Gotta run. I'll catch up with you later."

"Not stopping at the café first?"_ He usually does_.

"Have an appointment I have to prepare for," he says with a gleam on his face that surely indicates that he's up to something. He nods, gesticulating with one excited hand, "It's something that might be...very cool. I don't want to jinx it, but…"

"Very cool?"

"Oh yes. I'll fill you in later," he shouts before he hurries down the street in the opposite direction.

**###**

I'm sitting at the bar in the restaurant waiting for him this evening, hoping to hear more about whatever had him so excited earlier. He called a little while ago and asked me to meet him before dinner.

"Champagne," he says as he sits next to me and orders. He leans in and adds, "We're celebrating."

"Celebrating what?" I wonder.

"The fact that in less than a week, if I say goodbye to you on the street, or hello when I meet you in a bar, I'll be able to kiss you. Right there in the open."

He hands a tall-stemmed glass to me (his finger brushing mine in the handoff quite intentionally) and he holds it up. I turn to face him and he to face me, my knees together between his. "To what I hope will be many years of creating memories together."

He swallows his nerves, then tentatively, he waits. We haven't really discussed plans for a shared future specifically, or if we have attained some lableable status, or if we intend for what's happening to be something that lasts, but it all feels heavily implied in every moment we share. But he's looking for it right here, making his hopes clear and awaiting my assent. He is resigning from the church, so that certainly implies some level of certainty on his part.

"Father!" Godmother screams from across the room as she hurries over.

I see the grimace on his face at the interruption, so I quickly ting my glass to his before she's too close as I add, "To our shared pursuit of life, love, and _lots_ of mischief."

He flashes an approving smile as we each take a sip before Godmother hugs him a bit too excitedly.

_Hasn't the poor man been through enough_?

But after a second of discomfort at the suddenness of the hug, he gives me a pleased glance around her, like she's not even there between us. She pulls back and chatters at him.

_I think I'm in a relationship. A real one. One I'm not already planning a way out of._

_**###**_

We're all sitting around the table, Claire and her son, Dad and Godmother, and my Priest (at least he's a priest for a few days yet) next to me.

There is so much talking, back and forth and around the table, Godmother taking her swipes and making her bold determinations. Dad is trying not to overstep her. Claire's son is on her lap, ever my sister's replica. My Priest has his thigh against mine, just barely, nothing that would make anyone take notice or disapprove.

I excuse myself when my family becomes too much, stepping out for a smoke that I don't take. I just stand outside, letting the cooler air and quiet come in around me. I really would rather not be here. When I hear the thud of a shoe on the steps, I hope to see him, to hear about his celebratory mood. Who am I kidding...I'd throw that hot priest right against this brick wall.

The shoes on the steps click more than thud, and it's Claire who comes to join me. She leans next to me and sighs.

"Leave your son at the bar?" I tease.

"The Priest has him," Claire answers.

"Oh god!"

"Well, it was either that or Dad, who is terrified of him, or our stepmother, who might throw him in some plaster and make something ghastly out of him. The Priest seemed like the best option."

"Did he look as uncomfortable about it as I imagine?" I chuckle.

"Yes," she answers plainly.

I begin to ask, "Back to Finl—"

"You're in love," she interrupts, nodding.

I take a deep breath. Blushing hotly, I sigh, "Yea. I am."

"The Priest?"

"Yea."

"Still painful?"

"A lot less so since he's returned, confessed his love, we fuck almost constantly, and he's leaving the church on Sunday. But don't mention anything 'til that's done."

"Amazing. Truly fucking amazing."

"Yea."

"Convincing a man who's married to God to leave Him for you…"

"Sounds awful, doesn't it."

"Absolutely," she says, although she's smiling. "You look well. Really, truly well."

"Yea?"

"Have all those years alone made him very eager...or sort of rusty?"

You can tell she thinks the whole thing is so incredibly hot, too. _It's moments like these when you can really tell we're sisters._

"What?" I ask, not giving her answers too easily.

"Is he good? You know _in bed_?" she whispers the last part.

"What, at sleeping?"

"No," Claire grits her teeth.

I feign ignorance, "You mean—"

"You know what I mean."

"Say it…" I pester. "Come on." _Since she's mostly in Finland I have to make the most of the few opportunities I have to torment her. _

She scowls, then says awkwardly, "Sex. Is he good at sex?"

"Really good. Really fantastic."

"Yes. Good for you."

"How about you? How's motherhood and engagement and career..."

"It's good. It's all fine. Why? Considering it?"

"Considering what?"

"Marriage and m—"

"Oh god! Why would you ask that?" I laugh loudly, mostly because that's all far too much to even think about.

"I don't know," she snaps back. "Maybe because you found a man you actually like, and that doesn't happen often."

"We've been together for about ten minutes."

"After waiting for him for two years! That should count for something."

"I wasn't waiting for him! I was engaged to someone else!"

"Oh please. We both know what that relationship was about."

I protest adamantly, but by expression only.

She adds, "And, face it, you're not getting any younger."

Sarcastically sounding truly touched and sincere, I say, "I miss these talks. I always leave feeling so much better about myself."

Claire indulges in a good scowl.

The door opens, and we see Dad peer out into the night. He points back into the restaurant and says, "Your son. I think he's...distressed."

We follow back inside. The boy is whining a bit, but not crying with the type of fretful panic that I've seen from children in my café.

My Priest has the baby in his arm, looking more like a man balancing a delicate glass sculpture than one holding a small child. But he's entertaining the boy well enough by chiming a fork against different glasses and making a surprised face at the noises that result.

_Klare III is carefully judging The Priest's every move. And no, his name isn't actually Klare III, but I really think it should be._

Claire takes her baby and asks like he should be able offer justification, "Why are you creating such a fuss?"

_He isn't._

The moment the child is gone, the Priest takes a drink. I half expect him to wipe sweat from his brow. Although he feels relieved, I see Godmother take a deep breath in as she studies him, and I suspect he's about to be interrogated. She always gets that pre-interrogation glint in her eye.

Leaning her elbow on the table and propping her chin on her palm, Godmother comes closer to him and asks, "So what were you and my stepdaughter doing here at the bar, meeting early without inviting me to join?"

"They are f-friendly," Dad notes. "When I stopped by her flat this morning, he was...visiting."

"Is that so?" Godmother asks.

"Well, I have my suspicions...about all that," Dad says in a very knowing way.

"What sort of suspicions?"

I try to defend "We were just—"

—_he was absolutely worshipping my body just minutes before Dad showed up—_

Dad interrupts, "It's okay, Darling. I know what's going on here. It's just a little—uh—a bit of—you know…theological hanky panky."

My Priest blurts, "What's that?"

Knowing Dad and his way with words well, I ask, "Hanky panky?"

"Yes," Dad answers. "It's nothing to be ashamed of. I'm a bit...surprised...and...well, you know. But maybe it will be...good. For you. A change."

"What will be good?" Godmother asks.

"He's instructing her."

"Instructing?" my Priest questions.

"My daughter…" Dad begins, looking at me kindly, "...has embraced religion."

"Religion?" I laugh. Then, realizing we have a cover story, I pause. I nod and say more affirmatively, "Yes. Religion."

"Oh," Godmother sighs, a dramatic hand falling against her chest. She tells my Priest, "You know if you keep walking around without your God-collar, dressing like an ordinary person, people might forget that you're a priest and begin to assume things. Especially with the company you keep." Her eyes dart at me.

He takes a strong sip from his glass and clears his throat. He looks at me, waiting to see if I'll stop him from what I'm certain is about to come. When I don't, he bobs his head and declares, "You'll have to get used to it, I'm afraid."

Godmother replies, "What? You without your costume?" She quickly rambles, "Is this some attempt by the leadership to bring things into the new age? Reform the church? Make it more appealing to the youth and less—"

"Nothing like that," he interrupts before it can go on. And then, ending the inquiry with honesty like only he can, he admits, "As of Sunday, I won't be a Catholic priest anymore. I'm officially leaving at that point."

"Making a stand against the church's corrup—"

"I'm leaving because I'm deeply in love with your stepdaughter."

It seems the whole world grows silent.

My Godmother stares, mouth open just a little, stunned into silence after her ramblings. She gapes wordlessly.

_Even if he weren't hot, funny, sexually adept, and generally fantastic, I should keep him around just for his ability to do __**that**__ so well._

She's still staring, mute. "Oh," she finally says. She nods toward me and says, "Her?"

"Yes," he nods. "I'd appreciate your discretion until Sunday. I'd like the chance to say a proper goodbye to my parishioners."

"Of course," she replies, nodding, still shocked.

The gears turn in her head. She says loudly, a truly under-handed compliment, "It's nice that you're willing to overlook her past. She was quite...busy...probably a revolving door on her bedroom for a while."

"No," Dad shakes his head, timidly trying to get her to stop.

"Well, I guess priests are used to forgiving even the—"

"I have a past, too," my Love interrupts. "A...busy one, as you put it. The lives we've lived make us the people we are today. Our experiences are part of us, and I think the lives we've lived help us understand each other." He looks at me for a minute, like he's reading me, again, and then he says, all while staring right at me, "I don't think anyone has ever truly heard me the way she does."

I swallow, knowing all too well that I've felt that he sees me, but I never imagined he felt as heard as I feel seen.

Klare steps in late, happy and lighthearted as always, taking a seat next to Claire, immediately scooping up his child. _He has no idea what he's walked in to. _

Claire quickly whispers something to him, and he says, "Oh! Wonderful! Love, yes?"

"Yea," I grin.

I look at Dad, and he's softly contemplative, staring down at a plate that's conveniently dropped in front of him. He doesn't look up at all.

Then, Godmother, realizing she has a great new story for parties, and says to my Love, "Next Thursday you simply must come to my dear friend Marcus's opening. He'd love you. And you could—"

"I'm afraid we have plans," the soon-to-be-ex-Priest says. "But thank you for the invitation."

Now Godmother is completely thrilled with the scandal of these events. "What will you do? Become Lutheran? Anglican? Or—"

He replies, "I've considered those options. Not sure yet."

"You could stay with us until you find a way to support yourself," Godmother offers. "We have plenty of room."

_We grew up in that house, and we're barely allowed inside_.

He shakes his head. "Oh, I appreciate the offer, but—"

"If you're worried about repayment, you could sit for me," Godmother suggests. "I'm considering a new sculpture series that you would be perfect for. You'd be doing me a favor."

"That's very kind. But I've found a job." He nods at me and smiles, telling me without words that this is the news he was planning to share. "Earlier today I had an interview with a non-denominational organization. I worked with the group before for a few ecumenical events in the community. I'd be ministering to displaced youth and young adults...the homeless and runaways and the like. One of the organizers felt my personality and background would make me well-suited to the role."

"Won't you miss the outfits and rules?" I ask, curiously.

"Well the formality of it all was what I craved at one time, but my life has changed. I've changed. Sometimes God's work is from the pulpit, and sometimes it's out in the communities helping those in need."

But behind his eyes is true excitement. Enthusiasm. I see this, realizing that there is a professional life for him beyond the priesthood, something he can truly be passionate about (besides me, obviously). I consider his past, the tumultuous childhood, the fact that he left home early, the struggles he's only started to tell me about, but I understand because I feel them, and I think this may be a really good life for him.

On cue, he says, "I think it will be a really good life. A new calling. When things settle a bit, perhaps I'll look into becoming ordained in a different denomination. For now, I'm pleased to be able to serve."

"And to have a job!" Klare agrees, locating his drink.

"Exactly!"

"A toast," Klare says, perpetually cheerful and smiling at The Priest like they're long time pals. "To finding the love of a fiery woman."

My Priest grins, lifts his glass as well and says, "I'll drink to that."

"You love fiery women, don't you, Darling?" Godmother directs to Dad.

Dad still appears to be without reaction to any of this, nodding enough to satisfy her.

Godmother spends most of the time watching us with frequent, shifty glances. She studies our interactions, our words, the space between us.

_She's perplexed. Fixated. Maybe jealous. She's desperately trying to figure out what he sees in me._

**###**

My Priest and I are walking alone, finally done with the chaos of Godmother and the silence of Dad. I take such a long, deep sigh that my Love chuckles. "What?" he asks. "Is it me? The fact that I told everyone about us? I tried to tell you before dinner about the job and—"

"No!" I interrupt his attempts to decipher my sigh. "Just family."

"Right." We walk a block or so, and he begins again. "It will be a good job. Pays enough that I won't have to rely on savings or kindness. I'll be able to do something I really believe in, be of service. And I don't want to jump into a new religion without doing my research. I need to be certain the precepts align with my own beliefs. Such decisions shouldn't come lightly."

"Congratulations," I say softly but genuinely. "I think it's a good fit."

"Me too, me too." A few more seconds of silence pass before he carries on, "I won't move in with your father and stepmother. If that's what you're worried about."

"What makes you think I'm worried?" I laugh as I look to him for answers.

"You're so quiet!" His voice is a bit higher.

"I'm not."

"You are! What are you thinking in there?"

"About what?"

"About everything! What do you think, what do you feel? What do you…anything?"

"I think…" _God, I don't think I should say it._

"Yes…"

"Just wondering…" _I really shouldn't say it._

"Spit it out!"

_There's no way he'll agree to this... Right?_

He hurries ahead of me, standing right in my path. He holds up his hand, his index finger pointing between our faces to tell me to focus on him and our conversation. He folds his hands in front of him, and waits. "What?" he asks calmly now.

"Are you worried or something?" I giggle.

"A little. Yea."

"Why?"

He shakes his head and waits, refusing to speak more words until I speak mine.

I shrug. "I'm just thinking about things."

"Like…"

"I think you should stay with me. At my flat." _Fuck. Now I've done it. _

"Tonight? I was counting on it."

"No."

"No?" he questions, disappointed.

"Well, sure. But I was talking about a little bit longer...when you leave the church on Sunday, you could bring your things. And then stay while you get settled in the outside world again."

"Oh," his head moves back a little with surprise. "Really?"

"Just makes sense, practically. If you wake up with an irresistible urge to go down on me, why should you have to travel to satisfy that particular craving?" I smile.

His eyes narrow with thoughtful consideration, and he speaks with seriousness, "It is typically much easier if your pussy is geographically close to my face."

"Yes, exactly!" I can't help but laugh, relieved for the break in tension as I watch his expression light up.

"Sure you want that?" he asks gently when the laughter quiets and we begin to walk again.

"Yea. We could try it out and see if we like it. Unless you want to enjoy being free and single for a while. I would understand." _I would also be heartbroken._

"Oh, fuck no. I'm so tired of being lonely, especially when there's someone I'd like to spend my time with."

I feel a hint of shyness tug at me. "Yea. Me too."

"To clarify, can I still come and stay the night tonight?"

"Uhh," I pretend to think it over, then answer with urgency, "Yes, yes please, please do!"


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N-Okay, another chapter. Should be able to post all 5 remaining chaps today. Hope it isn't confusing posting them all at once. **

**Enormous**

We're in bed, watching something on my computer just before sleeping. It's very late.

He's lying on his back, completely naked beneath the covers, one arm behind his head, supporting it, one hand resting on my hip. My head is on his chest, my hand on the upper part of his stomach. The sheet is folded low on him, barely covering him enough to be decent.

So I rub my thumb on his chest a little, more wiggling it up and down, the rest of my hand still in place. I glance at his face and see a content little smile at a gesture that he thinks, for now, is simply affectionate.

I let my hand move down just a bit more, my fingers spreading, my little finger getting closer to that sheet. At first, it's just a swallow I hear from him, his face remaining unchanged. _But he's noticed. His thoughts have registered...potential. _

My palm slides across his lower abdomen, feeling warm skin over dips, lines, and muscles. _I mean, look at his beautiful body! Am I really expected not to touch it? _

He swallows again, his entire torso filling with deeper breaths. His expression when I glance at it appears determined, like he's trying really, really hard to stay focused on the images on the screen. Maybe he doesn't want to assume these touches are meant to be sexual. Or maybe he's simply enjoying being the focus of my attention.

My touch wanders even lower, my fingers grazing the top of the blanket, the entire rest of me gravitating closer to him because I can't really resist the pull between us.

He has this sort of shiver, a way that the muscles so low on his stomach quake slightly at touches that are both hot and a bit ticklish.

I see the stirring in the blankets, feel his chest rise as his breath grows deeper, hearing the first sounds of those little needy sighs he gives that aren't quite forceful enough to be whimpers or moans, yet, but can be heard if I pay attention.

My fingers move beneath the sheet, and I feel and see the tenseness that grows all over him, from his tightened jaw down to his feet that are no longer relaxed beneath the covers either. It's all tension. Excitement. I absolutely love working him up, shattering these calm moments.

He doesn't try to resist this anymore, isn't held back by chivalry or guilt. He's much more comfortable experiencing pleasure these days.

Admittedly our times together typically feel more hurried, either because we're both so incredibly horny that impatience takes over, or because we truly don't have much time. So I indulge in this casual exploration that I can see is already setting fires in him. I rub down his thigh, on the outside, hidden from his eyes by the blanket while he forces his face to stay pointed at the screen, but his eyes disobediently dart over to watch what I'm doing.

When I cross over above his knee to the inner side of his leg, I move progressively upward. His arousal stirs more with each little bit I move higher on him. My lips find his neck, feeling the vibrations when he clears his throat.

He rather abruptly reaches for the computer to move it aside, like the last straw of his patience has snapped, but I lift my head and say with every sliver of innocence I can muster, "I'm watching that."

"Oh, you are?" he says, skeptically, his eyes darting to the smile tugging at the corners of my mouth.

"Yea. You didn't notice?"

He now smirks and replies, "Okay," putting the computer back on the bed where it was, lifting his hands in surrender, then resting down into his previous position. His fingers tighten on my hip, although I think it's involuntarily, an expression of the tightness he feels building all through him.

I place little kisses on his neck, collarbones, over his chest, down his abdomen, feeling now the absolutely ragged breath that moves through him and seeing the way he's holding a tuft of blankets in one fist.

My hand and my mouth come to his sex at the same time, pretenses set aside, that winding anticipation through him pulling even tighter. His stomach muscles flutter again, this time tensing hard and remaining almost impossibly taut.

The moment I wrap my lips around him and start to give him what I know at this point he needs, he yanks the arm that was supporting his head out from under him to touch me, and I hear the loud crack of the back of his skull against the headboard.

I pause, looking at him with some concern because that had to really, really hurt. I ask, "You alr—"

"Fine," he interrupts, nodding so quickly his need appears desperate. "I'm just fine."

More to drive him mad than anything, I ask, "Want me to get some ice or...?"

"No. Thank you for your concern, it's very kind," he says with underlying sarcasm. His smile is as tight as the rest of him, and he would be amused if he weren't so distracted by the need I've stoked.

When I finally drop the act, wishing not to make him suffer any longer, knowing that I have him right on the edge where I want him...and...

...the memory I'm lost in comes to a screeching halt when I hear the words, "Good morning," come from behind me, ripping me out of my replayed thoughts and jerking me back to present, standing outside at the café with an empty tray and a bill that I deliver to the correct customer's table.

It's so bright here in reality that I have to squint. _How long have I been standing here? _

Turning, I see my father. "Hi, Dad!" I offer as cheerily as possible.

"May I...sit down?" he asks, pointing at the chair closest to him.

"Sure," I answer, "Can I get you something to drink or—"

"No. Nothing. Just...a word."

I sit across from him, nodding, waiting.

Trying first to make small talk, he asks, "Daydreaming?"

_Well, I've been busily replaying some of my greatest moments with the man who is quite possibly the love of my life while he is finally resigning his post, saying goodbye to his congregants, moving out of the rectory, and hopefully coming here afterwards. Will he go through with it? And if he does, will he be devastated and lost and sad and brimming with regret? And an even bigger question still….do you think Pam may, in a fit of panic, capture him, tie him up in the basement of the church, and keep him captive to perform various sacraments for her at will? _

I answer Dad, "Going over my next grocery order."

"Ah, yes." He looks at the front of the building, at cars passing on the street, clearly coming here to discuss something more than he's letting on. "I was walking and just…nice day," he notes.

I point at the café. "You sure you don't want a bite—"

"No," he shakes his head. "Thank you. I wanted to...thought I should...wondered if maybe...well…the Priest..."

I knew he was eerily quiet after he heard about me and the man who performed his wedding ceremony. I try to help him out. "You don't approve—"

"Not that. Not disapproval. Just… ...concern."

"What, for my soul?" I chuckle.

"No," he shakes his head and laughs shyly. "For your...you. I notice things. I do."

"Notice what?"

"I saw before...how he looked at you. How you looked at each other. Years ago."

"Oh."

"At my wedding I thought you seemed...quite taken."

"Dad—"

"Please… Darling..." he needs to say this, whatever it is.

I think it's half torture for him to be here for this heart-to-heart, so I offer, "Go on."

"After the wedding...I didn't hear of him again. Until...my heart..."

"Yea. I mean, it didn't—"

"You were different after the wedding," he states more decisively than he really ever says anything. "Your fun gene was sort of...switched off for a while."

"No, it wasn't," I scoff and resist mostly because it's true and it hurts to remember.

"It was. I knew you...were lonely."

"I was fine."

"No," he shakes his head, stubborn this time, then looking back at the cars again. These conversations are so very painful for him. "Your mother was better at these sorts of things," he says absently.

"But everything really is fine."

"And now you seem more yourself again," he states like that proves his point. "Better than yourself, I think."

"Thanks."

He quickly continues like he doesn't want to lose his nerve. "I knew you didn't love…" he searches for the right word, "What was his name? The man you were engaged to?"

"Doesn't matter."

"No," he smiles gently. "It doesn't, does it?" After a careful breath, he says, "I'm sorry I couldn't...well, I'm sorry I couldn't...help. When you felt...when you were...while you were so… ..._ lonely. _"

"I wasn't." _I fucking was. _

"Hmmm," he says, turning away. Almost begrudgingly, he continues, "I know love has been painful...for you. And I think...because you...feel...because this is... …You could really...get…" he touches his heart, like he's worried I'll get hurt.

"No matter what happens, I'll always be fine." My sister's ideas echo in my head.

He smiles like he doesn't believe me. "I hope so."

"He'll be here soon," _I really hope. _"Want to hang around and threaten to rough him up if he ever breaks my heart?" I tease.

He full-on giggles now. _For Dad, this is outright uproarious. _

"No, no," he chuckles still. "I should go and...I should go," he says finally.

He pats my hand sweetly before we stand. "Bye, Dad," I say, giving a gentle hug, pleased that he's here not on a Godmother's errand, but just as my father.

Walking away a few steps, he turns back and says, "Your mother…" he begins, stalling. "She...would love the way you look at him. And he at you. The way you smile when...you think of him."

"Yea?"

"Oh yes." He turns to leave again, but returns, "Now she would be the one to make threats if he... mucks this all up." He chuckles again, pleased with his joke.

_He's only half joking. _

A car pulls up in front of the café and stops abruptly, poorly pulled into the tiny available space. A man springs from the vehicle, practically leaping onto the pavement in front of me. I see mostly the brightest eyes and the most gleaming smile, knowing their owner well, as my now ex-Priest practically attacks me with joy. Hands holding my arms, face near mine, his only words are a happily screamed, "Ahh!" before he wraps me up in a hug that is fully ebullient. "It's done," he adds finally. "It's all done."

I can't really stop grinning, bowled over by his excitement and this intense love I feel surrounding me.

"Thank you for your patience, for waiting for me to get that all sorted out. When you're done here, let's just go for a drive, just take off and go absolutely nowhere together." Without waiting for an answer, he says, "Let's get away for a few hours. Oh, come on."

"Are you being run out of town?" I ask, still chuckling.

"Hope not."

"Pam's assembling an angry mob and coming after me with pitchforks and flaming torches?" I look around.

"No," he says again, widely shaking his head, still with that beautiful grin. "I'm just so fucking happy." He touches my cheek and comments, "Look at you." I'm lured into him for a moment before I remember Dad is near, as are the customers I have. I lean away a little and tilt my head in Dad's direction.

My Love steps back a bit when he sees Dad, although one arm stays around me. He hisses through his teeth as he breathes in and, looking at my father, says, "Sorry, sorry. I'm excited."

Dad ponders and replies, "Happiness...is a good...thing."

My Love beams, looking at Dad and nodding quickly, glancing at me. And this isn't the despairing man I'd expected to see, one crushed and suffering and struggling. _I think he feels free. _

"I was just headed off," Dad begins.

My Love interrupts, "Stay. Come have a chat with me."

Dad looks shocked and conflicted, like he was offered some kind of illicit drug or a trip to a wild sex club.

My Love turns to me and says, "Can I order that sandwich that I like...you know...with the—"

"Sure," I reply, already knowing him well enough to finish some of his thoughts.

"What are you having?" he asks Dad. "I'm buying." When Dad still hasn't answered, my Love says one more time, "Stay a few minutes. It's just a chat and a bite."

"Very well," Dad replies, and the two sit down outside.

I watch them as I work, the way my Love leads my often timid father to talk, to disclose, for once uninterrupted by Godmother or anything else. The more they talk, the more I'm convinced this man can make almost anyone open up to him.

_Can you imagine him working in Intelligence? Dark rooms filled with intimidating characters threatening harm, manipulating, interrogating brave souls who won't break no matter what methods are used. When all hope is lost, they call in my Love, who sits down across from them with a smile and a drink, and within forty-five minutes, they've told him everything they know. _

The two men I'm closest to in this world don't talk for too long, but longer than I think Dad has ever spoken with any of my boyfriends one-on-one. Dad comes inside the café while I'm giving final instructions to my Assistant, who will close up.

_Dad looks like he has something to say. Something serious. _

He says, "It's your turn. I hope. To feel...happy. You deserve that."

"Thanks," I say genuinely, wishing I could have heard their whole conversation.

"Goodbye, Daughter," he adds with a wave as he leaves.

**### **

With his relatively few worldly possessions in the back of the car, my Love and I leave for a drive. I'm not really sure where we're going or what we're doing. _Where'd this car come from?_

Intrigued, I ask, "Decide to stop being a man of God and take up a life of crime?"

"Why'd you ask that?" His mind likes the silliness of the idea.

"The car? Where'd you get it?"

"Borrowed, not stolen." After a beat, he asks, "You'd willingly get in a stolen car?"

"With you?" I smile and shrug. "Sure."

He nods, staring ahead, the wind from the slightly opened window tussling his hair when we're lucky enough to gain some speed.

"So what happened today?" I ask both to fill the time and because I'm really very curious. "Did statues crumble into heaps of dust? Altars burst into flames? Pictures fly off walls?"

"What?" he asks, glancing over at me from the road.

"When you said your goodbyes at the church?"

"Oh," he laughs, not saying anything at first. "No. No acts of divine disapproval. Some parishioners were disappointed. Some frustrated. One or two people seemed happy for me, in a way. A few people asked which church I'd go to so they could visit."

"How nice."

"I introduced them all to Father Michael, the new priest, then a few church officials came. They asked if I could be patient, wait to see if the Pope might make changes in the next few years allowing priests to marry."

"Tempting?"

"Not really. I've waited too long already to wait any longer."

"Can't say I'm disappointed at that."

"Then they went over the rules and lists of things I can no longer do, officially laicized me, and I packed the car and left."

"Must have been hard."

"Change is. But ultimately, they can't take God from me, can't strip him from my heart. I have no regrets."

"You sure you're not having a nervous breakdown beneath it all?"

"I'm not," he replies so calmly. "I know...I just _know... _this is right."

"Finally going to admit that that cock-blocking picture that fell at the church and interrupted us a few years back was just a coincidence?" _I want him to admit it. _

"It wasn't."

"It _was! _"

"But it wasn't."

I laugh as I speak, "So He had trouble with us then, but doesn't now? He's fine with you up and leaving entirely and living in sin with a faithless woman?"

He looks very serious as he explains, "He was right at the time."

"So why'd He change His mind?"

The sigh he gives is more one of confession than objection. "That night was the wrong night. The wrong time and place."

"Too disrespectful?" I want to understand.

"That. But more than that. He reminded me...what we had between us deserved more, deserved thought, sobriety, a choice I couldn't reduce to a drunken mistake."

Things are so heavy and serious, so I say, "But it felt _so good_."

"So fucking good," he chuckles.

It's easy to tell when he's devising a question, and then deciding whether or not he should ask it.

"Do you ever wish we hadn't had sex?" he eventually asks.

I think I actually wince when he asks this, and I feel a little bit queasy, the question hitting harder than I wish it did. My mind is too preoccupied with the implications of the question to concentrate on an answer. I finally glance over at him, finding that gently kind expression on his face that feels in strong opposition to the stabbing of the idea.

"What?" he asks.

"No. I just..." I chuckle awkwardly. "Do you?"

"Sometimes."

"You didn't seem to mind much yesterday. Or pretty much every day for the last few weeks."

"Did I upset you?" he asks, fully perplexed.

"No." I sound angry. But mostly it fucking hurts.

After a few long seconds of silence, he clarifies, "I meant before. The first time around. At times I've wished I'd had more willpower. With you it was like I had no resistance at all. And then, because I couldn't control it, it all fell apart. And you were gone. And I'd never felt nearly as lonely as after you were gone from my life."

"Me too," I reply softly.

"At first, we talked, flirted, laughed. Talking, our words, our subtle closeness was all we had. I wish we could have held onto that a little bit longer. That's all."

I pause and observe, taking time to consider these thoughts. I wonder if the purpose of this drive was for him to experience some of the freedom he feels, or if he simply wanted to create a situation where we had to talk without the temptations that normally present themselves when we're alone.

"I want to _know _you," he says like he's speaking in vows, "_really _know you."

_These words are coming from the man who is constantly instigating sex, chasing it, pursuing it, enjoying it, being amazing at— _

"I understand it sounds hypocritical because I can't keep my hands off you," he chuckles. "I love sex with you, I really fucking love it, everything about it, the closeness, the feeling. God, The feeling! I'm hooked…" He's speaking rapidly, excitedly. "But I want…" he looks away, less certain of himself. Almost timidly, he adds, "I want the rest of it, too."

Still driving, he reaches over to take my hand in his, bringing it to his chest.

He adds, "While we were apart, I had a lot of time to think about my life. Thought a lot about my relationships and the relationships I've seen around me. I counseled married couples in my parish. I thought about why things sometimes work, and why they don't work. I thought about how detrimental some relationships are to those in them. So many cause more pain than good."

I nod, wanting him to continue.

"I don't want us to be strangers, people together who really don't know each other at all. I don't expect you to tell me every secret you've ever had." He pauses, his face lighting up as he whispers excitedly, "Although truly I'd love to hear every last one."

I flash an agreeable smile. "I...want to know yours, too."

"The sex, the passion, the excitement, it will lessen and change—"

I protest with a loud groan of unhappiness.

"It will," he says, laughing but unrelenting in his certainly. "It will. It always does, if you're lucky."

"How's _that _lucky?" I scoff.

He smiles like I walked into this question like a trap. "Because if two people are together long enough for the initial attraction to fade and the relationship remains strong, you know you've found something real. Something that will last beyond the initial thrill of infatuation."

I clear my throat, looking out the window, smiling awkwardly. And, no, it's not because I don't like it. The romance beneath his words is all perfectly clear to me. But it's all so much, and sometimes I feel ill-equipped to handle all of the feelings I have for him that are housed within me.

"You know why I followed you out to the alley the night I met you?" he asks.

"Hmm...why would a man follow a woman into a dark alley?" I try to joke.

"I was instantly _fascinated_," he ignores the joke. "How does this woman fit into this family? Why is she so quiet and reserved, because she doesn't strike me as a reserved woman? What's she thinking? I wanted anything...any crumb about you. And then I wondered why you walked away from me when I wanted to talk to you privately. Why you didn't feel the need to share polite conversation, why you weren't at all curious about me. And later I wondered why some members of your family were so heartless when they thought you lost your baby." He confesses this as well, "I never remember meeting anyone who sparked such intense fascination in me, someone I just really wanted to be around. I wasn't trying to have sex with you. I was trying to know you."

**###**

We drive and talk for quite a long time, stopping for something to eat at a little roadside place for a short while. He is, at heart, a curious man, a person with a thousand questions, and every question I answer prompts five more. Most of them are easy to answer, for now. He asks about my childhood holidays, books and movies and music, experiences. And he answers each of mine in return, but is far more interested in hearing answers than providing them.

During the drive, I noticed a few photos that fell out of a box and onto the floor, so I reach back to fetch them and take them into the restaurant. Once we're seated, I study one, and ask, "Why 'Pie'?" after reading the back of one picture with the words 'Tom, Jackie and Pie—1988' written across the back.

He turns quickly, surprised, glancing down at the pictures in my hand. Chuckling awkwardly, he shakes his head and laughs. He takes the pictures, looking through them, and telling me a little about those in them. His parents are in one, and he's standing sort of separately, an adorably ornery looking child who probably only just started school. This is the first I've seen his mother, an arguably beautiful woman, and his father, a classically handsome man. The thing I see most is the lack of happiness on my Love's face, even when he's smiling.

He offers little tidbits of information about the photos, talking a lot but telling me relatively little. _He still hasn't answered the one question I've asked. _

Finally, when we're back in the car driving home, and he feels he's told me plenty, he asks, "What was your mother like?"

"Um. You know." I answer because I'm not sure what to say and for some reason the question surprises me even though I know it shouldn't.

"I don't. That's why I asked."

"She was…" images flip through my mind, her laugh, her smile, things we whispered about since I was girl.

He waits patiently. _Sometimes I think he's only quiet when he's waiting for answers. _

Finally, mercifully, he offers, "If you don't want to talk about your mother we—"

"She was fun," I interrupt, nodding, lifting my eyes to him, knowing these are the kinds of things he hopes we'll be able to share. _I really do want this all to work out. _"She understood me best, I think. Dad is somewhat mortified by everything I say," I chuckle softly, remembering. "She was so very alive. Energetic. Not afraid to express herself and be herself. I remember as a child feeling her love so intensely, just radiating off her. Her love was so...enormous."

I await another question, but he nods, "It sounds like that. Enormous."

"Yea. I think you would have gotten on well. She would have liked you."

"What would she've liked?" he asks, hanging on my words, so very hungry for my thoughts.

"You're not afraid of emotion. When you're angry, you yell. When something's funny, you laugh...really laugh. You're authentic. Not muted like so many people."

"I wish I could have met her," he notes. "I will, though, one day."

I don't have to remind him of my beliefs, he knows well enough and scoffs just at his prediction of my response.

"Well, if you're right, and I'm wrong, say 'hi' to her for me," I request.

"You'll get to tell her yourself," he says like he has proof of the afterlife hidden in his pocket.

"Won't I be busy being damned or something?"

"Fuck, no. I won't have it," he shakes his head. "I'll pray enough for the both of us." It's dark out now, the streetlights show his face when we pass under them, and he's harder to see when we're between the bright spots. He looks at me whenever he can with such adoration it really, truly hurts. No words of love could possibly convey the intensity and thoroughness I feel from him. "Besides," he says, "God would never allow a soul as beautiful as yours to be damned."

_He means that. He really means it. _

"Did you have that?" I ask because I really want to know.

"Have what?"

"Someone who loved you so much it felt enormous?"

He sits back, gazing straight ahead. "A grandmother," he confesses, nodding, his mind transported to another time and place.

"She still around?"

"No. She died two days after my first Penance, so I was young. But I remember her perfectly. I remember the whole world around me feeling warm and happy when I was near her. The way her kitchen smelled so wonderful. She'd make these little chocolates at Easter, the best chocolates on the planet, never had them anywhere else. But the best part, the absolute _best _part, was the way her arms would smash me into her with her hugs. She had unbelievably strong arms."

"She sounds amazing."

"She was."

"And after that?"

"Uh…" he thinks, searching through memories. "Not really. I didn't have that type of family."

"None of them?"

"It's true," he laughs.

"How unfair to go through childhood and fucking puberty and young adulthood without someone like that to love you to pieces when you hate yourself so much." I hear the angry tint to my voice.

"I was lucky to have it while I did." He says this without anger or regret, truly appreciating it.

"Your mother was never like that? Even when you were small?"

"No," he answers evenly. Questions like these make him uncomfortable, too. "She was sad. So very sad."

"Do you see them often? Your family?"

"Not if I can help it."

"Kind of unfair that you've seen all my family, and I haven't seen any of yours."

"It's not as fun as it sounds."

Our topics move on to less serious subjects, for now, but I can't stop thinking about these photos and the lonely looking boy.

Once we're home, we quickly take the boxes inside. All of his remaining possessions are contained in seven boxes that fit into the back of a relatively small car. He holds open the door to the flat for me with his foot as I carry the last box in, and I can't wait any longer to have my answer.

I lift the picture with the inscription that's intrigued me, I point to one boy, and I say, "I know this one is you."

He chuckles and shakes his head, "Why do you think that? Maybe it's my brother."

"It's not. That…" I point firmly enough that you can hear my finger hit the paper, "...is you. I know it."

"We used to go to that place with my cousins sometimes in the summer. Loved it there..."

"I also know that you are neither Tom, nor Jackie. Which means you must be 'Pie.'"

He shrugs.

I guess, "Your favorite meal?"

"No."

"So why?"

He shakes his head, eyes closed, mouth twisted into an unhappy expression. "It's not a good story."

"Come on," I push. _This has got to be good. _

I consider reminding him that knowing each other requires both parties, but he sighs and says, "Mum says it was Dad's idea, and he says it was hers, but either way, the moniker stuck."

I nod, waiting.

"When I was born, it was like seeing a magpie. You know...a portend, bad omen. A sign of sorrow to come."

"Why?"

"I was bad luck. I ended the fun, as they tell it, the best part of their lives was over. A joke... with a ring of truth to it." He shakes his head and sort of laughs it off and says, "They weren't exactly enthusiastic parents. Neither of them really wanted a child. Anyway, the name 'Magpie' eventually just became 'Pie' and that's the story."

He walks to the kitchen, grabs glasses and a bottle, and asks, "Drink?" as he returns.

I want to pretend it's humorous. I think I should shrug it off and forget it. But I can't. It's not funny or witty or a cute little childhood anecdote. It hurts. It still hurts him, I can feel that, even though he's trying to make me think it's just an annoyance. _How can anyone see him and not adore him? _

As I hear myself, I know that this love I have for him has gone entirely out of control. It is enormous.

I stare, feeling this giant burst of emotions growing through me, ready to pour out, scarcely contained. And I remember the feeling of love with nowhere to put it, and then that feeling again when Boo died, and then when I lost him, and I realize more than before the capacity I have for this emotion. And the fact that I feel there hasn't been anyone to _really _give it to for a very long time.

And I see him, and I know that for far too long, no one has even tried to fill that void in him. I'm furious at that, at the fact that he looks so lonely in every single photograph, the fact that he remembers his mother's sadness most, and has mentioned his father's anger, the fact that they constantly reminded him of how unwanted he was each time they called his name.

It's all so monumentally unjust.

And I say at the top of my voice, "No. Fuck that. Fuck _that_."

He looks at the bottle's label with confusion, wondering how that particular beverage has offended me, and says, "Okay. What would you like?"

I shake my head, coming close to him, my hand resting on his chest as I try to figure out what to do with all of these things I'm feeling within.

"You alright?" he asks.

My eyebrows furrow, head shaking, still wordless and unable to put together my thoughts. So I lean in, my second hand coming to his chest as well. I kiss him gently, so very affectionately, because I want so badly for him to feel adored. Not simply desired, but loved.

He reaches out blindly to put the bottle on a nearby table, freeing his hand to come around me, pressing low on my back and bringing me against him. He pulls away, mumbling something unintelligible while he takes the glasses in his other hand and finds a place to put them down, too. "That's better," he says, holding my face.

And we come back together, and I can feel a smile from him even as we kiss, I know it's there although I can't see it. "God…" he sighs contentedly when we break a moment, his forehead on mine, holding me close to him.

He feels happy until he notices a few tears on my cheek. "What is it?" he asks, wiping them away with his thumb.

"I have a _lot_ of fucking love inside me," I say like I'm confessing a grave secret that no one has ever known.

"I know," he answers, not at all surprised by this.

"No, it's a lot. It's _so _much," I chuckle sadly.

"Okay."

"It's in here, clawing to get free, and I so badly want to just…let it out. To stop trying to keep it down and subdue it and let you have all of it."

"What's stopping you?" he asks, almost like he's daring me.

"What if it…"

"If it…?"

"What if it's all too much?"

He very happily declares, "It's not."

"It might be."

"It's not!" he boldly insists, his voice raising.

Jesus, the enormousness of the love I feel pounding invisibly into me from him is nearly all the assurance I need.

Then he says, like he's flirting and challenging and promising, "I'm not afraid of you. Or your enormous love."

_I can't be expected to resist that. _

**###**

The next day, his phone rings and I hear him say, quite happily, "Meghan! Hi!"

And then after a few moments of small talk, I hear, "God, I'd love to but I'm not...I'm not exactly a priest anymore."

He walks in and out of the room, pacing as he speaks so it's really hard to follow the conversation. When he's finally done, he comes into the room where I'm reading._ I'm just holding this book in front of me to make it look like I'm reading. _

"Is it possible to deny the existence of a God who answers your prayers so readily?" he says as he sits down next to me when the call has ended.

"What prayers?"

"Yesterday, you said you wanted to meet my family..."

"Was _that _a prayer?"

"Yea," he replies, nudging my shoulder with his. "So...do you want to go to a wedding?"


	6. Chapter 6

_A/N-Here's the last of it! All remaining chaps in one day. I have a new one posted over on AO3. I'll try to add that one here soon. THANK YOU! _

**###**

**The Wedding**

**Thirty-four days later**

My Love has spent the last month moving into my flat and acclimating to the world beyond the church's walls, getting a quick internet ordination to allow him to perform a wedding, and adjusting to his new job. He's even met another former priest there that he's become friends with, and that seems to have helped his transition.

All of that has led us here, to a rehearsal dinner surrounded by his family. This one is quite a bit bigger and more animated than Dad's engagement celebration had been.

_Meghan, as it turns out, is my Love's niece, born to his brother under less than ideal circumstances when he was still rather young_. _She's a lovely woman, attractive and kind, and full of life in a way that reminds me of her uncle. Of his entire family, she seems to be the only one he has any real feelings for. _

"I told you you wouldn't make it, didn't I?" my Love's father says sort of aggressively toward him, like he's picking a fight.

_His father is, to put it most kindly, an absolute arsehole. He's referring to the fact that my Love is no longer a priest. He has said something to that effect no less than four times already tonight, boasting in I-told-you-so fashion that he knew celibacy wouldn't last. _

Again, my Love reaches for his glass and shrugs in surrender. I suspect he feels his father isn't worth arguing with.

"It's not really his fault as much as mine," I chime in, defending. _This is really weird, because protective feelings as strong as these are typically reserved for Claire. _ "I went after him pretty hard and—"

"That's not true," my Love interrupts, shaking his head and boldly objecting. His hand comes to my back. "I fell in love and chose to act on it, and was fortunate enough for her to accept and return that love. I've no excuses. Or apologies."

"I'm happy for you Uncle," Meghan says, loudly, lifting her glass as her fiancé assents.

_She looks at her uncle with an adoration he doesn't even seem to notice. _

One of his aunts, who is clearly at least a thousand years old and one of few who is not a nun, asks, "You get her into trouble?" and then laughs with a sort of glorious cackle.

"All the time!" I laugh back.

"No," he tells his aunt with firm denial. He whispers, to me, "That's not what she means."

"Pregnant?" another woman at the large table asks, shooting disapproving darts at me with her eyes.

"No," he denies, "that's not what happened. That's not why I left. For love. Just love. That's it. But today's not about me." _Everyone here is insanely curious about the whole no-longer-a-priest thing. _He continues, trying to redirect everyone's attention, "Today is about Meghan and Dan. Congratulations, you two!"

His father, who should sound much more intoxicated than he does given the amount he's consumed just since we've sat down, says, "That's why you shouldn't invite Pie to things, Meggie. Bad luck!"

_He's referring to that unfortunate nickname they gave my Love as a child. _

My lip snarls as I look at his father with a little scowl before I even realize I'm doing it. It's automatic. Instinctual.

His father points at me, "You don't like that, eh? You think it's cruel to consider him bad luck?"

"Because he's not," I respond. _This is really pissing me off. _

"If you think I'm such a horrible bastard for calling him that, it's his mother who gave him that name! Save your ire for her."

I turn to my left, seeing his mother, the woman who has been sitting there the entire time (literally for hours), quietly listening to everything around her. Or maybe ignoring it. She blends in, disappears, and really my Love's description for her, 'sad,' is abundantly accurate.

"I came up with the name, that is true," his mother admits, the first words I've heard from her.

"See!" his father brags.

She continues, "But not because of some superstition or bad luck."

"Then why?" I ask softly, and she meets my gaze and holds it for a second. You can see the resemblance most in their eyes as her son's are nearly identical.

She chuckles, shakes her head, looks away. After another gulp of her drink, she says, "He was born with a shock of black hair. So dark. And tons of it. The midwife said she scarcely remembered seeing an infant with a head like that." After a pause to remember, she continues, "He had that stark black cap on him, and a pale, white little belly that had never seen the light of day, and those skinny bird legs. He was a couple a' weeks early, so he looked so fragile. Like a young little magpie."

"Weak little thing," his father adds with a gruff laugh, as I search for a hint of fondness somewhere in there.

"Strong enough since he survived, didn't he? Didn't turn out half bad either," she argues firmly, only looking at the man she's arguing with for long enough to make her point. _They really do not get on. _

She lifts her glass to her son, talking to him for the first time directly since we've been here, and says, "You're the one truly good thing to come of me in this world." She tings her glass to his, reaching across me and covering the majority of the distance because my Love looks too stunned to move his arm toward her. Then she stands, bids everyone goodnight, and leaves.

I don't even really hear whatever retort his father has, but I can tell the meaning in the way that it's said, and I stand quickly. My Love immediately gets up as well, taking a firm grasp on my wrist and whispering, "Don't do it."

My face scrunches in a question. "Why?"

"He'll punch back. And it's not worth it."

"I wasn't going to hit him." I point toward the bathroom.

"Oh!" he says, relieved, letting go. For a moment, I think back to that night we met, to my Dad's engagement dinner and the rather satisfying feeling of giving Martin a pretty good slug. "Then by all means…don't let me get in the way," he gestures to wave me on with that adorable half-grin that makes me fall for him again nearly every time I see it.

_I wasn't going to hit the miserable old man...but I'd really, really like to. _

**###**

It's absolutely beautiful here, a lavish, white, outdoor wedding in the countryside, set in the middle of green in every direction, skies just a little cloudy. A pretty full crowd takes their seats. I end up seated beside my Love's mother (his father is on the opposite side of the row as far apart as possible simply because they can't stand each other). She still doesn't really talk even when I try.

My Love takes his spot at the front and comes forward after the initial greeting, prepared to share words on the concept of marriage. He's dressed in a less weighty black robe than his Catholic one, one he borrowed from his ex-priest friend with a non-denominational sort of stole hanging from his neck. _Now that I'm not worried about faith separating us, I can fully appreciate how hot he looks in these sorts of getups again. _

"Love is awful," he says boldly and immediately without any pretext. His eyes find mine with quick reassurance, which I'm unendingly grateful for. Everyone chuckles, but he shakes his head, "I'm not being funny. It is _awful!_"

He waits a moment, taking a breath and glancing toward the sky. "Every wedding I've performed, every time I've homilized on love, I've mentioned that. It started with the very first wedding I ever officiated. And it's true! It's horribly true. Think of those feelings, the ones when you're painfully in love. The way you question yourself and them and everything around you, everything you believe in. You feel that queasiness from your gut straight into your heart and your head. And it's scary. It's horrifying, and uncertain and uncomfortable, really. It can make you do things you never thought you'd do. Anyone who tells you otherwise is lying.

"But we're _incredibly _lucky to have this awful thing, if we're blessed enough to find it. It's a chance to take an incalculable risk, to hold out your heart and offer it to someone when you cannot guarantee how they'll accept that gift, or what they'll do with it once they do.

"To accept that risk, is to start a journey with another person without knowing for certain where you'll end up, or how to get there safely, while traveling at high speeds in a wonky vehicle without a map. You have to figure everything out as you're going, on the fly, as each obstacle arises. It takes tremendous courage and hope to embark on such a journey.

"Sure, there's the lovely things, too. It's not all bad." He says it flippantly, like an unimportant afterthought, and a laugh titters across the crowd. "The things poems and love songs and films celebrate. There're moments when you're so filled with joy that you can't breathe. The jittery excited feelings, the companionship. Hopefully laughter. Those times you see that person and realize the intensity," he balls his fists and shows this, demonstrates what words cannot adequately, loudly continuing, "the sheer magnitude of it all. When you feel like you really may just combust from the feelings coursing through you. The moment when you wake up beside a person, and realize the one you want has chosen you, too.

"Today you're making a commitment, not just to your partner, but to yourself. Not to let the mundane swallow up your adoration, or obligations and petty things eat away at what binds you together. And that's gonna be one of the biggest challenges of your life. To deal with everything thrown at you, to be covered in the muck of the world when you're tired and miserable, and not allow that to make you complacent in your relationship or resentful of your partner.

"May you both be blessed with the ability to know when to speak...and when to listen. When to step back, when to act, and when to simply be present. May you avoid directing life's fear and pain and uncertainty toward your partner. And may you be blessed with patience when your other is acting out of a place of fear and pain and uncertainty themselves. And, when they act that way, as they inevitably will... may you have the skills to lovingly tell them to stop being such a bastard." He smiles as people chuckle again. _He looks really happy up there. _

"It's not about being perfect or ideal or soul mates. I think such notions should be tossed aside. It will take work. It's a chosen partnership, sharing the ordinary, best, and worst days of your lives, and you'll see the ordinary, and the best, and the worst from each other. If what you have is real and true and genuine, even on the worst days, it's a privilege to have that other, that person you've chosen, who's also chosen you. My greatest wish for the two of you is that you can keep hope itself close to your heart and alive between you." He smiles at them and takes a deep breath, clasping his hands in front of him enthusiastically and saying, "Well, you two ready to do this?"

My Love's mother suddenly stands, and although I lean closer to ask if she's okay, she's gone so quickly it's almost like she never was there.

**###**

The party that follows lasts well after dark. My Love is pulled away for stretches, carried off by family curious about his life and some others asking him to perform their weddings. Although he always makes his way back to my side. I suspect he'll start trying to find a religion who will have him, because he looks so very happy in these roles.

_I've been talking to a very drunken nun for nearly twenty minutes_. _Trust me, this conversation is not one I'm trying to get out of. In fact, it's the most entertaining party conversation I think I've ever had. _

My Love sneaks up beside me, taking my hand, grinning widely, a little tipsy and loose and content. Meghan and her new husband come over to talk to us, making rounds through the guests. "Uncle…" Meghan says so fondly, "the ceremony was wonderful. Thank you."

"Of course," he waves away the praise like it embarasses him.

"No, really, your words, the sort of blessing you gave...your advice. It was all so perfect."

"Hopefully it's decent advice. What the fuck do I know?" he chuckles shyly. "But I hope that something I've said, at some point, may be useful. And if you find that it is…" he pauses, looking so serene, "feel free to name your first born child after me. If you have them."

"And if it's a girl?" Meghan asks.

Pondering, he suggests, "Change the last letter to an 'a', and you've got yourself a lovely girl's name." He pats her arm and says, "Only joking. She deserves her own name."

Other people speak, but I can't stop looking at him, trying to decipher the thoughts behind the look on his face. Finally, politely, he interrupts and says, "I'd better go get changed." His eyes come to mine as he nods like he's trying to tell me something, finally stepping away and going to the large stone converted barn building where there are changing rooms for the couple and wedding participants.

After a few minutes more, I slip away from the conversation, following in the direction I'd seen him go. It's quiet in this building, except for some of the caterers at the far end of the hall chatting as things finally wind down. Signs point down to the basement for the bride's and groom's changing rooms, so I go down to see if I can find him. There are a few empty rooms, doors slightly ajar with bags and shoes strewn about. Way at the end of the hall, I know a room is occupied because the door is open and light spills out, occasionally casting his shadow onto the floor.

When I finally reach that door and look inside, I see him, head tilted, with a flirty little smirk on his face. "Hi," he says, his hand reaching out for the back part of my hip, taking a firm hold, and pulling me into the room until I'm right up against him so he can shut the door. "Was hoping you'd come."

"You were really great out there today," I say genuinely.

He is poised to deny it, but says, "Thanks," anyway.

Tightly held against him, looking, receiving, and really feeling that smile he's giving me, having survived a wedding where he doesn't seem at all ready to run away, I have this tremendous sense of relief. For a second, I remember the few weddings I've been associated with since Dad's, and realize I've avoided them as much as funerals. Tonight, gazing into his eyes for what is probably a little too long, that dread is nowhere to be found.

"What?" he asks. "What you thinking?"

I consider telling him he's beautiful, or he is truly amazing as a man of God and should do it more, or that I'm having all kinds of thoughts about a future together. I really don't feel like using words right now, like selecting them, and sharing them, so I do what I really want to do. I kiss him, knowing how long it took to get to the point where I could just do this without him running away or denying me in ways that really, truly hurt.

He sighs into my mouth as the kiss deepens just a bit, still slow, still a tender expression of affection. Moving his mouth just a little to the side, he says, "You still haven't answered—"

But he's interrupted as my hands move around him, pulling up his shirt at the back to touch his warm skin, then grabbing the belt loops at the backs of his trousers and tugging him toward me.

"Won't forget," he reminds one last time before he stashes those questions away for later.

His lips move downward, mouth tasting the column of my neck with lusty kisses while I hurriedly try to unbutton what feels like dozens of buttons down the front of his shirt. I feel the hot softness of his skin, the relative roughness of patches of hair in the right places, the pebbled nipple beneath my thumb. I love this man. I love his body. I love his thoughts. I love the way he touches me and I him. I love kissing him, and fucking him, and waking up in bed and finding him there. I don't even mind the little cross that sits on his nightstand by our bed at our flat.

Walking blindly backwards, he finds the sofa behind him and sits, all the while pulling me along with him. I'm immediately on him, my knees on either side of him, perched in his lap, this intensely needful kiss never breaking.

My dress is still on, pushed high around me, and he seems suddenly annoyed by it, hurriedly pulling it over my head and throwing it like it has personally offended him in the deepest way.

His mouth latches onto a bra-covered nipple, laving over it, the smoothness of the silky material moving over me as he does. Both of my arms wrap around his head, cradling it, a hand grabbing a few fingerfulls of hair as I hold him against me.

He lifts off the sofa, rolling as I hang onto him with arms behind his neck and knees on his hips, until I'm seated on the cushions. He's kneeling on the floor against the sofa, still tightly between my legs, hurriedly opening his belt and trousers. His moan strikes my ears as he comes back close, finding the pressure of our meeting bodies. His hand slides up my thigh, yanking at my underwear and tossing that, too, and at some point, we'll care what happened to them. But not now. Not at all.

His fingers fumble between my legs, not because of ineptitude or intoxication, but because he's shaky with longing and impatience. As he finds his way to my sex, his eyes close as he makes contact, his finger slipping through wetness and heat.

He lifts back up, trousers falling down to his ankles as he sits on the sofa again and pulls me back on top of him. I waste absolutely no time, positioning over him, legs straddled, sitting down and taking him inside me. His hand moves quickly up my spine, cradling the back of my head, sharing a kiss that mirrors this rising passion we share.

This is how I'd wished we'd ended that last wedding, tangled in a fevered embrace, accepting how we'd felt, and then acting on those feelings without hesitation.

His back arches as he thrusts up into me, one of his arms behind me with his hand on my shoulder to push my body down to his. His other hand caresses my thigh, touches my face, and then as need builds inside him, finally slips to my hip to move me as he wishes, picking up the tempo.

I'm not exactly quiet, my moans escalating, and something drops in the hall and echoes through the stone-lined walls. He looks up at me, his reaction stuck halfway between the worry of discovery and the thrill of our encounter. He puts a finger to his own lips first to warn me quiet is needed, then moves it to mine. But he can't behave, not really, and I study him while his fingertip traces my lips with true fascination. We hear a few people walking along just on the other side of the door, waiting for them to pass.

He pushes up into me a little bit, his body moving because it hurts too much to hold still, and at that friction I moan softly but with such pleasure that I can see how that incites him. And we're both smug at what we do to each other, the way we cannot resist, the way we need, the way holding back is always a little painful.

The moment we hear those outside leave the basement, he slips off the sofa and onto the floor over me, a rough rug behind my back, cold stone against my arse. He's back inside me as soon as he can be, an arm under the small of my back to angle my hips, which he knows too well hits all the right spots for me. And finally we just start fucking like it's our only choice. I love this rawness, the unhindered, instinctive, basic act.

My hands glide over his back as it rounds, as he pumps into me, filling me, my fingers finally settling between those dimples low on his back, urging him on, feeling the way he moves. And I hold onto him, pull him into me, lifting against each thrust as we find each other.

There's a shaky groan he offers, one that tells me his control is reaching its end, his patience maxed out, and it's so hot, so very hot. The way he tries to hold off, the way he throws everything he has into this, all of that energy and passion and intensity, into me. That heavy, guttural groan and the way he's pushing more wildly into me, with less coordination and more desperation, causes me to cry out, too. He knows as I know how very close I am, and when the rough clenching pulses of orgasm begin within me, his climax grips him.

We move a little less as our bodies slow, pants and gasps and moans still being choked out as we find those last few pleasant pulses and sensations.

He's heavy on me for a moment, still, his chest moving as his breath eventually calms. We're wordlessly content, his face against my neck. I just hold him, arms and legs around him, fingers in his hair, hoping to never really have to let go of him again.

I hear him mumble something unintelligible, so I ask, "What?" with a gentle giggle that sounds all too tender and enamored.

He rolls to his side, pushing the hair away from my face. I expect words of satisfaction, but he asks, "So...what were you thinking?"

**###**

We're walking away from the party as it nears its end, both tired, sated, and little tipsy, but a hell of a lot happier than when we'd left the last wedding. His mother steps out of the darkness, arm-in-arm with someone I don't recognize. She hurries up to us, and says, "Son, a minute?"

He approaches, smiling uncertainly at the new woman. She's probably in her late sixties with thick salt and pepper hair, and striking pale blue eyes. There's a gentleness about her.

His mum clears her throat and says, "This is Marie. My girlfriend."

"Oh," he says, taken aback for the briefest moment before he reaches out and shakes her hand warmly, using both of his. "Good to meet you."

I introduce myself as well and ask, "So how long have you two been…"

His mum looks at her watch and says, "A few hours," and then shares a heavy look with the woman she's seeing.

"We've been friends a few years," Marie adds.

His mum continues, "Your homily...I just had to..."

"That's great, Mum," he says genuinely. "I really hope you can find...some happiness."

We talk for a few minutes until his mother asks, "You two the next pair getting married?"

"Oh, ummm…" he turns and looks at me, and I at him, each waiting for a clue as to what the other thinks.

_We've never so much as hinted at the topic. _

Finally, nervously, I say, "I'm not sure we're really the type to...I mean, is it even relevant anymore...erm…"

He nods, "Probably not that important these days."

His mum chuckles and says, "The man who gave that homily thinks marriage isn't important anymore?"

He shakes his head, "Well, I just…I think...we'll—"

"We'll see what happens," I finally say. Feeling very watched, I nervously continue, "What is the role of marriage in today's world? And consider feminism and the traditional connotations of marriage in a patriarchal society—"

He interjects, "—perhaps it's a bit—"

"—antiquated—"

"—oh." After a beat, he continues, "I mean I've seen plenty of formalized relationships that really haven't taken the spirit of commitment to heart."

"Yes. Yea," I add. "It's just paper. Isn't it?"

The two women before us both slowly nod, looking at each other for a moment, and then back at us. Marie finally says, "Okay."

After a brief chat, his mother fleetingly hugs him, and the expression on her face is the happiest I've seen from her. We part and begin the walk back to the room we're staying in while here, and I say, "You realize that's not one but two women your little speeches have convinced to cast caution aside to pursue their loves? My sister and your mum. Extraordinary. You do realize that, right?"

He smiles and nods humbly. When we're at our door, he pauses and says, "I'm hoping to have convinced at least three women that love is worth the risk," nodding at me until I acknowledge I've heard.

He lets it go at that_. _

**###**

**Three-hundred-forty-six days, five hours, and nineteen minutes later**

"Would you stop fiddling with that?" I whine, woken from my sleep by him as he's spooning up behind me, his chin on my shoulder, obviously awake.

He chuckles enough that I can feel it against my back, replying, "Can't help it."

"I can't sleep when you're twisting it."

"Sorry! I'm just..."

I pull my hand out of his and roll to face him. "Go on."

He says, amazed, "I can't believe we did that."

"I know," I confess, equally amazed. He lifts my hand and looks at the ring again, spinning it as he had been while I'd been trying to sleep, maybe trying to figure out if this all is real.

I take his hand then, inspecting, verifying myself that the ring I slid onto his finger yesterday is still there this morning. We grin at each other, unhindered, a moment of true, deep happiness. And a little shock.

_Shut up. _

**###**

**The End**

_A/N-So, I have a partial desire to keep writing this forever, but I also know that's not the best idea. When I started writing this and made my outline, this is exactly where I wanted to bring them, back to a wedding that ended a lot better (at least for my tastes). I don't want to drone on and on until the story is no longer interesting. That being said, I may write a follow-up at some point, and I have a couple of ideas for different short stories (including one sort of ridiculous one that won't leave my mind, so it may have to come out). _

_I hope you've all liked reading this even a fraction as much as I've LOVED writing it. I can't thank you all enough for reading, commenting, liking and supporting, and for being patient when I was a little slower. And damn, PWB, wherever you are... your characters are absolutely amazing, and so fun to play with. _


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